


Of Golden Treasures

by vermouthhh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Self-Harm, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermouthhh/pseuds/vermouthhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Trevelyans are a tumultuous family known throughout most of Thedas for being shocking, outrageous and generally deplorable. Steeped in scandal both political and personal, the Trevelyan children have grown up battling for power and position in the social hierarchy. </p><p>As the second youngest of seven children, Avalon has lived her life under immense pressure and social scrutiny. For years she has competed against her siblings to be the most disgraceful and talked about Trevelyan of their generation. The culmination of living in such a way eventually takes its toll. At twenty-six, it seems inevitable that she will burn out and succumb to her demons as her siblings have before her. </p><p>Then, a rift opens up in the sky. </p><p>Avalon must learn to do away with her past and recover from a life spent destroying herself if she is to save Thedas. But some demons are even more terrifying than the ones crawling out of the Fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

9:31 DRAGON - 16 YEARS OLD

The Trevelyan estate was hardly ever quiet. The family reserved their silences for the walls of the Chantry and their prayers at night. All other hours of the day were devoted to being as raucous as possible. The seven children were well and grown but it seemed the years only made them wilder as they seamlessly transitioned from screaming toddlers to drunken, lavish adults. 

“She is not wearing that hideous thing, mother!” 

Mariela’s voice was shrill and blasted against the creamy white ceiling. She threw a dark crimson gown to the floor and stepped on it with her bare foot for effect. Her dark curls wobbled like a hornet’s nest about her head. The more frustrated she got, the easier it became to picture a swarm of angry insects buzzing from within. 

Lady Joana Trevelyan fixed her daughter with a look of cool fury. Her eyes were sea-green and narrowed into slits. 

“Mariela, control yourself.” 

“She will wear the purple gown I picked out,” Mariela said defiantly. 

Never one to be outdone by her twin sister, Alexia stepped in with a bark of scathing laughter. She picked the shimmering amethyst gown lying against the bed and held it at a distance, as if it had an odor. 

“Surely you don’t want her going in this rag. You care very little for our dear baby sister, Mariela,” she dumped the dress on the floor alongside the first and then spun elegantly to an alabaster gown hung over the doorframe, “If she doesn’t want to be laughed right out of the party, she’ll wear this one.” 

Mariela shrieked, “I refuse to have her walking around in that atrocity. Ser Thorne will be there! I won’t have him thinking my siblings are uncivilized.”

“Oh, sweet sister, your precious Thorne is too busy staring down my dress to notice what Avalon is wearing, I assure you.” 

Mariela gaspsed and took a step forward. Her hand flew up and struck Alexia across the face. The sound echoed under the high ceilings. Alexia reeled back and brought her hand to her cheek. Before she got a word out, Lady Joana’s cool fury transformed into unbridled rage. 

“Andraste preserve me! You’re acting like animals!” 

The noise rose, as it always seemed to do in the Trevelyan estate. Each of the seven children had learned early on that the only way to be heard was to be the loudest. As a result, the Trevelyans became a family that battled one another for social dominance. Modest in temper, bold in deed. So bold they became. 

The Free Marchers tended to be a proud, but solemn bunch. A place grander than any other, but divided. Ostwick sat continuously in the shadow of Starkhaven, and the Trevelyans felt the pressure of insignificance. A social order had been constructed around them. And if they were not the most pious, or the wealthiest, or the kindest -then they would be the loudest. 

Tumultuous affairs. Drunken scenes. Lewd rumors. Over the years as the children grew, the Trevelyan name became steeped in political scandal and personal infamy. It didn’t so much matter why people were talking about them, as long as they were talked about. Each sibling tried to outdo one another while making wrecks of their lives -whether it was who slept with a married Duke, who crashed the soiree too drunk to stand, who was rumored to have gotten a commoner pregnant, who had a lyrium addiction. They were Marchers pretending to be Orlesian. And the cities were obsessed with hating them and being fascinated by them in equal measure. 

Of course, traditionally their name was a pious one. The Trevelyans were known across the Free Marches for their close ties to the Chantry and the Templars. The ties were so strong, in fact, that it provided a cushion for their deplorable behavior outside the institution. They were wealthy, beautiful and had connections to powerful people. And so long as they recited the Chant of Light and devoted themselves to the Maker, no one had much cause to do away with them. No one wanted to. They were a source of entertainment. A never-ending reservoir of scalding gossip for every party. 

As the second youngest out of seven children, Avalon started out at somewhat of a disadvantage. Her elder sisters and brothers had made names for themselves among their social circles. The Free Marches had already seen what they were capable of. Avalon, however, was an unknown. Perhaps if she were a stronger person, she might have made her mark by cutting herself from different stone than her siblings. But her world was mired in social acceptance and grandiose displays of self-worth. Perfection was necessary, as was notoriety As she grew, she crafted herself into a pious, beautiful young woman as well as the very embodiment of impropriety. 

She kept pace with her older siblings, playing their games, raising their bets. Soon it was her name on the lips of gossiping Marchers. The young, raven haired Trevelyan with her mother’s eyes who could charm a diplomat out of his socks one minute and set fire to the ballroom the next. 

Avalon sat perched on the edge of her bed as her mothers and sisters fought. Her mouth burned around the edge of wanting a drink, something to numb the shrillness of all three of their voices combined. She crawled to the foot of the bed and waited there for a moment. Her hair was cut short right above her jaw and her body was all muscle. Her sisters were soft and womanly, devoting their lives to expensive perfumes and studying to be clerics. Avalon wanted to be a templar like her older brothers. She devoted herself to long days in the field beating blunted swords against steel shields and peeling blisters the size of coins off her palms. 

“Don’t I get to pick my own dress out?” she asked. No one heard her. 

She removed herself from the room without a sound. Avalon had learned to pick her battles. She knew when to be loud, and when to be soft. She knew who she could beat and who was best to just leave alone. The women of the family were always more difficult to bring to heel. Once Alexia and Mariela got started, their effect doubled. They were catty and brutal and when they weren’t fighting each other, they were a force to be reckoned with. Throw in Lady Joana and you had a trifecta of female hellfire. 

Her brothers were easier. Garret was two years her senior and fairly muted as far as the Trevelyan siblings went. He was studying to be a Chantry brother and rumors that he’d wooed all the sisters into bed despite their vows had been circulating since he was fifteen. Nicholas and Emerson were the eldest. Both templars, one with a halfway concealed lyrium addiction and the other who had never quite been the same after having to kill a woman during her Harrowing. 

Colton was the youngest, and untouched by the spoil of his house. He was a year younger than Avalon but had left for the Ostwick circle when his aptitude for magic appeared six years prior. It was a bitter sweet memory for certain. They’d gotten along better than any of the other siblings seemed to, delighting in pranks and childish mischief before the true materialism of their household had a chance to make them question what they did and said. 

That day, they had taken the family’s most prized horses and raced them ragged through the forests. Avalon had been ten years old at the time and fearless. At the end of their last race the horses spooked from the light show at their mother’s garden party and charged straight through the soiree. Colton’s horse overturned three tables and Avalon’s bucked her off. She landed near the fountain and broke her left arm. Laughed so hard she barely felt the pain.

Of course, that was until she and the other guests realized that in his panic, Colton had set fire to a table cloth. 

He’d been sent away the day after and she’d scarce seen him since. There were intermittent visits of course and an letters upon letters, but it was never truly the same after he left. For that was when the true, white-knuckled grip of the family locked around her and she was expected to be someone. There were times she envied Colton. Being a mage and being sent to the Ostwick Circle seemed preferable to growing like a parasite within the Trevelyan estate. 

She missed him dearly and prayed for him often. The entire reason she’d chosen to pursue the templar order had been an attempt to get closer to him. But her eldest brothers had dark tales of what went on within the walls of Ostwick’s circle, and she was more disenchanted than ever. 

Avalon cut down the stairs from her quarters and busied her white skirts around her bare ankles as she left for the courtyard. For all the decadent spoil that went on inside the estate, the gardens were unmarred. The front of the estate bloomed with vibrant color and an air of whimsy and innocence. Yet another mask, meant to protect them from scrutiny. Just as the small stone Chantry nestled within the bursting wildflowers offered them forgiveness.

Though it was never forgiveness she asked for. Avalon had been built to shirk responsibility. Instead, she prayed selfishly for things that she wanted. Colton’s return, a shimmering white horse, perfection. 

She entered the Chantry to find Garret already present. She padded forward and he looked up from his tomes. There was no love lost between them but she granted him the politeness of a nod. 

“Brother.”

He nodded and went back to reading, “Sister.” 

She moved past him and knelt by the altar. She recited the few lines near burned into her bones from memory. Then, she wet her bottom lip and felt her mind slip into the pools of secret thoughts and wishes that she’d never have anyone know. There were times when she prayed for foolish, childish things. Like a mother who kissed away her tears instead of snapping a finger at her spine to get her to straighten her posture. Or sisters that protected her instead of throwing her to the dogs every chance they got. Brothers that cared. Warm hands that loved. Wine that didn’t make her head throb the next morning. 

Eventually, she stood from the altar and made her way back through the Chantry. Light filtered in through the dusty windows and made gold appear before her. She hated the color gold. It was everywhere she looked. In the jewels about her neck, the stitching in her dress, the inlays of the grand tables, the pillars in the ballroom. Gold concealed. Gold lied. And yet she couldn’t help but bathe herself in it all the same. 

Through the back wooden door to the estate and into the flustered, boiling hot kitchens. The serving girls barely noticed her in their rush to prepare for the party. Over two hundred guests would attend later that evening, all hungry and thirsty and eager to see what the Trevelyans were up to. The thought made her chest seize with familiar closeness. A building pressure, an inevitable crescendo -what will it be tonight? 

Avalon darted past one of the cooks and stooped down towards the cupboards. She pulled at the neck one of the decanters until it came free from the shadows. The wine inside splashed against the leather sides. It was almost as if she could feel the coolness sloshing up against her belly as she hugged the cask close. 

She was out of the kitchen before anyone noticed her. She climbed the stairs to the study, a place dusty and forlorn as the Trevelyan children had long ago abandoned the pursuit of knowledge in favor of the pursuit of attention. Her favorite window seat was the only thing that had been loved in the past few years. As she approached, the burgundy velvet cushions looked wet with sunshine. She curled her body against the velvet and kicked open the window a bit with her heel. As soon as the wind rushed in, she uncorked the decanter and drank. 

When it was done, her lips were red and the leather dry. She vowed to return the empty skin later. No one would notice it missing. And even if they did, her father would be the first suspected culprit, and Emerson the next. Confident, and certainly feeling more equipped to handle her mother and sisters, Avalon made her way back towards her room. The sun just hovered above the horizon and all their land was stained in gold. The guests would be arriving soon. A thought that both warmed and nauseated her. 

She pushed the door of her room open and found her mother sitting on the end of her bed. Her nimble fingers worked at a needle and thread. A dark spool of thread unfurled in her lap. The dress she was stitching flickered orange and purple from the light of the fire in the hearth. 

“Where were you?” Lady Joana snapped.

“Reading.”

“You should have been preparing,” her mother stood from the bed and shook out the dress, “You’ll wear this tonight.” 

Avalon didn’t hide her look of disdain. She glanced back toward the wardrobe where she’d laid out a delicate jade colored dress hours before. Neither her sisters nor her mother noticed it when they’d barged in, and she hadn’t had the chance to tell him.

“I was hoping to wear that one,” she pointed, “The one father bought for me in Antiva.” 

Lady Joana’s face turned a shade darker. In her younger years, she had delighted in her children’s games and exploits. They were a source of never ending attention for her and a secret, indulgent pride. But she had grown tired of the charade and had little patience for any of them any longer. She dropped the dress in her hands to the bed and strode across the room to Avalon’s choice. 

“This? This barely covers you, Avalon. It’s unsophisticated and savage. I won’t have you wearing something from Antiva to one of the most important parties of the year.” She spat the foreign word like it had a bad taste. 

“Mother I-” 

Before she could form a rebuttal, her mother turned and tossed the dress into the fire. The green silks withered and crumpled against the flames. Avalon stared open mouthed until her mother caught her chin between the harsh vice of her thumb and forefinger. She dug her nail into the divot of her chin. 

“You will wear what I have picked out for you.”

Avalon jerked out of her grip.

“Fine.”

“Good girl. I’ll send Helsene in.”

Lady Joana strode out in a cape of garnets and with an air of victory all around her. Avalon sat before the flames contemplatively. When Helsene arrived, she ducked her head respectfully and started to run her a bath. The elven woman had been Avalon’s handmaiden since she was a young girl and had more of a hand raising her than Lady Joana had. Still, even she was no match for the hurricane Avalon could be. And by now, she seemed to know when the storm was brewing.

Helsene helped her into the scalding bath and scrubbed her skin until it was raw. Afterwards, she combed back her hair, doused her in perfume and placed a gold necklace about her throat. Neither of them spoke until Helsene had fastened two matching gold earrings to her earlobes. 

“Leave me,” Avalon said. 

She was naked and bedecked in gold, no where near ready, but Helsene conceded anyway. Not without first giving her a pitying glance, however. 

Once she was alone, Avalon closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the party rising from below her feet. The clink of glasses. Shrill laughter. Wine sloshing. The prideful inhales as war stories were exchanged. People ripping themselves to shreds just to entertain. Decadence. Elegance. Wealth and gold. 

A grand ruse. 

Avalon left the dress at the foot of her bed. The halls were empty and dark when she exited her room. She felt the shadows clinging to her naked form. She’d always been comforted by darkness. But the farther down the stairs she went, the light grew and grew and she could feel it filling her up. The gold at her throat burned. 

She came to the top of the balcony where the announcer stood with his parchment. He glanced at her, glanced back at his papers, and then glanced at her again. This time with the whites of his eyes flown wide open. 

“Messere Trevelyan,” he gasped, fumbling with the papers as she came forward with a smile. 

“Announce me,” she said.

The man swallowed. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the ceiling above her head, and whispered conspiratorially, “You…are not wearing any clothes.”

She watched his nostrils flare discreetly, likely wondering for a hint of alcohol on her breath. But her head was clear. The only indication she’d drank anything at all was the internal sensation of an echo of something humming in her veins. Her head was clear. Eyes sharp. 

“I had noticed that, yes.” 

The man cleared his throat, “You shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…”

Avalon breezed past him, abandoning any hope for a proper announcement. He made a noise of protest but just as soon let it die in his throat as she approached the top of the stairs and began the descent. 

Her bare feet kissed the marble. She felt the lights on the tops of her breasts, across her milky thighs. Each step, she became brighter. More solid. She was born under the light after all. A never ending torch light trained on her, so very interested in her activities, in her looks, in her opinions. Darkness was comfortable. But she was alive among the stars. Decadent and destructive. Naked and glorious. 

The party came to a standstill as she came to the last step. Avalon surveyed the crowd with a coy, diplomatic smile. Mariel dropped the plate she was holding and it shattered across the floor. Great Aunt Lucille fainted into the closest pair of arms. Ser Thorne sputtered on his wine so violently that it required a thump or two on the back from the man beside him to get him breathing again. 

Avalon strode forward, picked a drink from a silver platter, and brought it to her lips. Over the rim of the cup, she smiled.

“Sorry I’m late.”


	2. Chapter 2

9:25 DRAGON : 10 YEARS OLD

It was a wonder Colton could ride the horse at all. Granted, it was the smaller of their father’s prized mounts and the youngest Trevelyan was leggy for his age. But Avalon could not help but be impressed by her seven year old brother’s determinedness. They charged through the forest, dodging wide branches and overturned roots and made a race track for themselves out of patterns of moss and stalks of elfroot.

They let the horses take a break by a small brook in the heart of the woodlands that surrounded the Trevelyan estate. Avalon wet her feet in the icy water and felt the smooth stones under her toes. Colton joined her and then lay back against the bank.

“Do you think father will be mad?” he asked.

She found his wide eyes against the green grasses quite pretty. Someday he would grow up to be a handsome man and would have a pretty wife who would sew with her and take her to parties.

“Not if he never finds out,” she replied and stuck her tongue out from between her teeth.

“What if he finds out?”

“He won’t, stop worrying.”

“What if Nicholas finds out? Or Emerson? He will be very mad that you took his horse.”

Avalon reached forward and dug her hand into the stream. She splashed Colton with a grin and cackled when he lurched up and yelped. She mussed his hair as he sat there dripping and then laid back agains the grasses herself. The horses drank deeply beside them.

“If they find out, I’ll tell them it was all my idea, don’t worry.”

“But it wasn’t your idea.”

She shrugs her shoulders in the grass, “Sure, but they don’t know that. You’re in enough trouble after spilling that porridge on Alexia’s dress.”

Colton’s face soured, “It was an accident.”

“A right funny one!”

“She didn’t think it was so funny.”

“Colton Trevelyan, this was my favorite dress! Now I’ll never get to kiss Whos-it Crumplebutt! You’ve ruined my life!” Avalon imitated their sister’s shrill tone and threw her hands up in the air.

Colton screeched with laughter before trying to muffle it inside his hand. Between his fingertips he whispered out, “It was pretty funny, wasn’t it?”

Avalon ruffled his hair again and then jumped up. She laced her boots once more and then approached her eldest brother’s most cherished horse. He’d named it something stupid like Gregor or Egor, she could never remember. Avalon had taken to calling the horse Licorice.

“Come on, let’s get back before they notice we’re gone,” she said.

Avalon hitched herself onto the saddle and the horse brought its head up from the water. Beside her, Colton wrangled himself up on top of the other and then grinned at her, a little breathless, once he was seated.

Colton grabbed a hold of the reigns, “Shall we race?”

“Shall we race, he asks,” Avalon rolled her eyes with feigned annoyance and slowly turned her horse around from the stream. But as soon as she was pointed back towards the estate, she snapped the reigns and dug her heels into the creature’s ribs. “Of course!”

The horse took off through the underbrush. Just over the pounding hooves she heard Colton’s incredulous, laughing accusation, “Cheater!”

They flattened the forest where they rode, trampling leaves and roots and shadow beneath them. Avalon lowered herself against the neck of Licorice and wondered if not for the first time if she should have cut her hair so short. How it must feel to have it whipping through the wind, tangling in the leaves.

Colton caught up to her easily. His horse was swifter and lighter on its feet, a fact she’d known and accounted for. As he passed her, he stuck out his tongue and laughed before racing ahead for the edge of the forest. Avalon dug her heels a little harder into the horse and it sped up, likely glad for the edge of the woods becoming clearer and giving way to sprawling grasses instead.

The sun was just setting, and she could only see Colton’s outline ahead of her.

“Come on, Licorice! We’re not losing this one,” she cried and felt the horse thundering beneath her. Every bone in her was jostled by his strides. She felt her teeth clacking inside her mouth and laughed at how ridiculous it was. “Faster, faster!”

She was going so fast in fact that she didn’t have time to warn Colton. Just ahead, past the dense rose bushes, their mother was holding a garden party in the dimming twilight. He charged through the thorns and Avalon went after him, shrieking his name and trying to keep from laughing. As much as she could see the disaster waiting in the wings, it would be a story for the ages if they ruined the party by bringing a stampede through.

They broke through the bushes and then the lush vines underneath. Colton pulled the reigns hard and the hooves of his horse skidded in the mud. Avalon jerked hard on her own and grinned as she came to a stop just beside him. Just past the lattice garden walls she could hear the band playing music and glasses clinking together.

All at once, the sky lit up. Fireworks. She’d forgotten about the fireworks. How could she? It had been all Lady Joana talked about for weeks. Imported from Orlais, the ones they use in their operas! 

For just a moment, Avalon was entranced by the spectacle. She lifted her eyes to find a myriad of different colors, blues, greens, reds and oranges all blooming above their heads like flowers. Her awe lasted half a second before the horses spooked. Colton’s reared first and then thundered head first through the lattice. Avalon’s twisted about once, twice. As it reared back its head she caught the whites of its eyes, glittering with the colors over head. It bolted around the lattice and headed straight into a finely set table right on the outskirts of the party.

The laughter and music turned to shrieks and shattering in a moment. Avalon gripped the reigns so tightly in her hands that blood welled where her fingernails bit into her palms. The horse crashed over the table, nearly trampled a man in a purple pair of pants, and then finally bucked her into the stone fountain.

Something in her arm cracked as it hit the edge. Her face caught the stone gargoyle second and white hot pain flashed across the side of her mouth. Blood wet her teeth as she slumped to the side and watched poor Licorice take off through the party and back into the forest. The guests were screaming. A few were crying. Avalon caught side of her mother’s red, puckered face throughout the panicked ebb and flow of bodies.

Avalon began to laugh, then looked around for Colton. She caught the tail of his horse fleeing the scene just around the left corner of the lattice. Then, an eerie quiet settled over the party. The frantic bodies stilled and blocked her view. Avalon pushed herself up on her good arm, brow furrowed.

Then, a hushed voice.

“Maker, the boy’s a mage!”

Avalon struggled up onto the edge of the fountain. Her arm throbbed and her mouth felt like it was split up the middle. But she fought her way up from the ground, neck straining to see.

“Colton?! Colton!”

A rough grip found her good arm and tugged her up. Her feet swayed under her for a moment before they caught the ground. She glanced up to find Emerson staring darkly ahead.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone so quiet?” she asked.

“Don’t talk,” he hissed.

Avalon wrinkled her freckled nose and chose not to listen. “Colton!”

It was then she smelled something burning. She broke free of Emerson’s grip and pushed her way through the crowd, holding her broken arm close to her stomach. She was small enough to squeeze in between the bodies and finally pushed her way to the front where a table was burning like a funeral pyre.

Colton stood at the end of it, hands outstretched, face dripping with sweat. His fingers clenched in and out of his palms and flames decorated the ends of his fingers. He clenched his palms one last time until the fire stopped and then wrapped his arms around himself. He hunched his shoulders as if he were trying to cover his ears and then began to wail.

Their father appeared out of the crowd and took his shoulders. Without ceremony, he began to push him forward and back into the house. Avalon finally put the pieces together and dread seized like ice in her gut.

“No! Please, it wasn’t his fault! It was my idea!” she ran forward, blood dripping onto her chest from trembling lips, “It wasn’t his fault!”

Lady Joana pulled her back with a vice like grip and hissed in her ear, “Quiet now. You’ve done more than enough.”

Avalon watched as her father lead Colton away. Colton’s fire crackled behind her, making heat fan at her back. She watched his soft, honeyed head of hair disappear into the estate and knew she wouldn’t see him again.


	3. Chapter 3

9:38 DRAGON - 23 YEARS OLD

The party was a bore. The lights were magnificent, the gowns elaborate, swirling like cream pastries across the marbled floors. The music swelled and waned throughout the ballroom. They were playing something Orlesian and Avalon heard the Duchess two seats down from her whisper something about how delighted she was to hear something so avant-garde. 

Marchers were a proud people, but they lusted after the risqué nature of Orlais all the same. None more so than the Trevelyans, who dressed in gold and filled their tables with imported cakes and dark Orlesian brandy. Avalon tired of the game. The grand facade was thin at best -for they delighted in nuances of fashion and scandal, and yet stuck to their relics of power and order. The table’s discussion had been centered around templar training for most of the evening and an expansion of Ostwick’s circle. She thought of Colton and bit her tongue. If she joined the conversation, it would get away from her. 

But they were all so frozen in time. For as progressive as their music and their dress were, the Trevelyan soirees were steeped in political undertones. Praise of Chantry rhetoric took precedence, as did accommodating for whatever templar Commander had decided to join them for the festivities. 

Her husband Tarius sat next to her, preening whenever the conversation turned to him. Once, she’d been enchanted by his power and wealth. How everyone stood when he entered a room. How it was his opinions the masses yearned for. But she’d been young, stupid and drunk off his luster. Now she knew better. He was just like the rest. He would step on just about anyone to keep himself at the top -something that made him fit right in with her family. Something that made her hate him over time. 

And he hated her too, there was no question about it. She was an embarrassment to a powerful man. The wife that could not be contained, the golden daughter with the loud opinions who had made an enemy out of both the templars and the Chantry which her family had built their foundations upon. He couldn’t keep her quiet, and she couldn’t make him decent, and they drank to forget how much they were repulsed by sitting at each other’s side. 

Avalon eyed the bubbles in her glass. Strung together like pearls, she felt them making necklaces down her throat as she took a long drink. She hoped the alcohol would take the rough edges off the conversation at the table. But the drivel continued, and the alcohol did nothing but make her antsy and irritable. 

“I think they should move them farther than Ostwick,” an elderly man chuckled, “Keep the Circles to the edges of Thedas, keep them far away from us.”

Tarius laughed and raised his glass. 

“The farther the better,” he smirked, winning a laugh from the rest of the table. 

Avalon did not try to hide the disgust on her face and spat out, “Perhaps we should send the templars away instead.”

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her. The entire table, save Tarius, who stared straight ahead with a smile. Under the table, his hand clenched like a bear trap around her knee. A warning. 

“Avalon, dear, weren’t you training to be a templar until just last year?” the Duchess asked with politely veiled accusation. 

Avalon scowled, “I was.” 

“She changes opinions like she changes her wardrobe,” Tarius chuckles and then takes a calming drink of his brandy. 

“Well at the very least, she has impeccable fashion sense,” the Duchess smiles and then turns to the woman at her side, “Did you see Lady Mariela’s dress this evening? Positively magnificent! From Val Royeaux, I heard.” 

The conversation moved away from them, but Avalon could still feel the curious, greedy glances passed towards their end of the table. Each guest wondering if they might bear witness to one of the couple’s famously heated spats. Tarius could feel it too, and once he set down his glass he turned to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

Avalon moved away, “Don’t.” 

Ever concerned with his image, Tarius attempted to laugh it off, “Am I not allowed to kiss my beautiful wife?” 

Avalon stood from her chair. The white lace of her dress dropped into a long train that followed her as she stalked away from the table. Her steps faltered before she got to the stairs. The room spun like a macabre circus of ghoulish, painted faces and rushing fabric. There was a time when drunkenness comforted her. It put the shine back on things that had dulled for her during parties. Now it only served to make her sick and angry. 

In the corner of the room, she saw Nicholas with his trembling hands and sweating forehead. They shared a look before she collected herself and ascended the staircase. A shriek of laughter from Alexia was the last thing she heard before the grand doors closed behind her and basked Avalon in glorious silence. 

She made it to her room and kicked off her shoes. Her fingers made quick work of silk laces and her dress disintegrated from her form, melting into a pool of cream at her feet. Naked, she went to her bedside and poured herself a glass of wine from the flask on the end table. She left it there for a moment, opting to step into a silk slip hanging on the back of the door. The cool fabric chilled her. She pressed the silk over her hipbones and then held herself tightly. 

Her desk was cluttered with papers and wax, but she sat at it anyway. It was the only place she ever felt close to Colton. For it was where she penned letter after letter to him, and read his elegant, practiced scrawl by candlelight. It was he she told her demons to. The very real ones that could possess him at any given moment - rage, despair, pride and terror. 

She unfolded a fresh, creamy roll of parchment and pressed it flat against the table. 

Then, the door opened. 

Tarius stumbled in with a curse. She turned in her chair to find him glowering at her, his eyes hazy with brandy. 

“What am I supposed to tell people when they ask after you? You disappear halfway through the night and never give any reason,” he spat. 

“Tell them I’m tired.” 

“Of what? Of them?” 

“Or perhaps my sweet, _sweet_ husband.” 

His jaw tightened at her words but he remained silent, furiously working at the buttons of his jacket. Avalon rose from the desk and knelt on her side of the bed to watch him. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she’d loved him once. He was sturdily built with a dark head of hair and eyes like lazurite. He had presence, intrigue. When they were young she’d been endlessly fascinated by him, and him with her. 

But now she watched him undress while tasting iron in her mouth. Her body quivered with distaste. When he approached, naked and stinking of brandy, he motioned for her to lay out on the bed. 

“No,” Avalon said and turned her face away, “I don’t want to be touched.” 

Tarius knelt before her, “I am your husband. You are my wife.” He placed his hand on her thigh. “This is your duty.” 

Avalon laughed mirthlessly, “Such a poet, Lord Vasselly.” 

He didn’t relent. “Every day, you father asks after an heir. He is impatient, and so am I. You will bear me a son, Avalon, whether or not you can stand to look at me while we perform the act.” 

It was not a fight she was used to winning. True, she had not produced an heir yet, and truer still that her father was growing impatient. Her sisters had both taken vows and her brothers had yet to marry. But the idea of producing a child with Tarius was almost as nauseating as the act itself. And yet he would not take no for an answer. Lest she be forced down against her will, she often relented. And prayed that her luck would continue to hold out, and his seed would refuse to quicken inside her. 

“Fine,” she sighed, but first turned to the glass of wine she’d poured and began to drink. 

Tarius scoffed, “Am I truly so repulsive?”

Fury spiked in her. Almost to the bottom of the glass, Avalon took what was left in her mouth and spat it at him. The red splashed against his chin and his chest. His reaction was instantaneous. He brought his hand across her cheek. When she recoiled and held her face, he sighed.

“You’re acting like a child.” 

With no fight left to her, Avalon released her tender cheek and placed the glass back on the table. She sat back and lifted the slip until it pooled at her belly and then splayed her knees apart. Tarius eyed her for a moment to see if she was serious, growing hard with need. Then he settled himself over her. His hands ran up her thighs and then stopped, noticing fresh wounds among a pattern of white scars. 

“Again?” he asked. 

Avalon tilted her head back, letting the wine make her skull feel light, “Don’t play the doting husband, Tarius. It doesn’t suit you.” 

He did not comment further. Merely eased himself inside her and fucked her until he was spent. Avalon stared at the ceiling with disinterest until he was finished and did not move once he rolled himself off of her. He was fast asleep only a moment later, the alcohol submerging him into a catatonic state. 

Avalon cleaned herself up and then went to the desk once more. She flattened the parchment down and dipped her pen in the dark, sticky ink. 

_Dearest Colton,_

_It’s getting worse…_


	4. Chapter 4

9:41 DRAGON - THE CONCLAVE PT. 1

Inside the halls of the temple, Trevelyans were uncharacteristically muted. There was only a handful of them, to be fair. The Conclave would be delicate enough without the entire family there to stir up trouble so only Emerson, Nicholas, Alexia, herself and Tarius had made the trek to the newly reformed Temple of Scared Ashes for the proceedings. Their father was to arrive the day after, though Avalon wondered if the talks would even last that long.

Already, she could feel the roiling tension coming to a head. Divine Justinia had been brave to call all these people under one roof, but she had also taken a risk doing so. Peace talks only remained peaceful so long as someone stayed in control. And despite the power the Sunburst Throne held, it seemed foolish to expect one woman to be able to bring two warring groups to heel. Dread waited in the wings for them and Avalon felt sick to her stomach. 

Though, perhaps that had more to do with the regrettable lack of alcohol at the proceedings. Avalon supposed it made sense. The last thing these talks needed was a bunch of angry drunkards cursing each other. Wine loosened tongues and it was just that sliver of chaos that could topple this entire hearing. Unfortunately, Avalon and her siblings often worked the opposite. Wine tempered them into civility. 

“Must you look so dour?” Tarius snapped at her midway through the morning. 

Avalon bustled her white furs around her shoulders. Her dress was gold and cream as usual, piety and innocence in color if she could not do so in person. Though the cut was a good deal more modest than her other dresses. The pearl buttons went up to her throat and she could feel them squeezing against her windpipe, ready to shatter her vocal chords lest she speak out of turn. 

“In case you hadn’t realized, this is far from a happy occasion,” Avalon murmured under her breath. She kept her expression plain, but each word was layered in acid. 

“We still have an image to uphold.”

Avalon barked a laugh, which won her a few disapproving looks from the floating crowd, “Tarius, darling, have you forgotten who we are?”

His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes. She heard him take a deep breath, likely calming himself from pursuing the argument any further with her. He was irritable from lack of a drink just as she was. They were so rarely sober in each other’s company that when it did happen, they were reminded why they’d started drinking all over again. 

“Your husband is right,” Alexia hissed from beside Nicholas, “We’re not here to look like someone just killed our pet fennec.” 

Avalon’s irritability bloomed in her chest like a fire. She pushed past Tarius and lowered her head near her sister, eyes blazing. 

“In case you’d forgotten, our brother could very well be dead. I have every right to look sullen.”

They’d heard of the debacle at the Ostwick Circle only days ago. Neither Nicholas or Emerson had been present at the time. Emerson had been relieved of duty for a few months already for being too harsh with his charges. His melancholy had hardened him over the years and soon even his fellow templars couldn’t control him. Nicholas, for his part, had been out for some time, nursing his addiction at home rather than have it rationed to him at the Circle.

She hated them both for not being there to protect Colton. 

It was said that the templars had attacked their mage charges as tensions came to a head, forcing them to flee. All her letters had gone unread. He could have died inside the prison that had held him for twelve years, or he could be starving somewhere in the forest. Her stomach twisted into knots trying to decide which was the more palatable option. 

What made it worse was that no one seemed to care. They wanted to have peace talks while her brother was missing. They wanted to sit around on ceremony while the ashes were still fresh from Kirkwall. And her siblings, here under the guise of envoys from House Trevelyan, were only concerned with appearances. 

She thought she understood how things could become so terrible. With tensions at an all time high, even those on the outskirts of the war were banging their fists against the cage trying to get in and set fire to it all. She clenched her hands against her sides. Her nails bit into her palms, which she supposed was the less violent alternative to striking Alexia’s indifferent expression off her face. 

Alexia sighed, “Avalon, calm yourself-“

“I will not!” she cried out. The few tentative glances that had been passed their way increased tenfold. Shame blanketed her. Even when she wasn’t trying to cause a spectacle, it seemed the habit was a hard one to break. She lowered her voice into a snake’s hiss. “We are here to help put an end to this war, not to look a certain way or put on an act.”

Nicholas grunted from Alexia’s side, “I knew she’d be trouble, the way she always talks about mages.” He accused her with his gaze. “Father was right, we should have left her at home.”

Avalon bristled, “Leave me home? And not the lyrium coddled addict? You can barely take five steps before you forget where you're going, Nicholas!” 

“Avalon!” Tarius scolded. 

His grip appeared on her arm and his fingers dug hard enough to bruise. He pulled her back to his side and then pressed his other hand into the small of her back. 

“Let’s take a walk,” he said through gritted teeth.

They walked with forced expressions of coolness through the throngs of people. The proceedings weren’t set to start for another few hours and the Temple had been steadily filling with new faces. There was even a qunari mercenary group prowling the edges of the delegation, large and foreboding under the collective haze of both candlelight and magelight. 

“I don’t need you to baby me, Tarius,” Avalon said after a moment and wrenched her arm from his grip.

“Evidently you do,” he said under his breath.

He lead her around a shadowed corner and into an empty hall where people had not yet spread. He pushed her back against the wall and shoved a jeweled finger at her face.

“We are not here for you to wave your little mage sympathy flags and lament over their plight,” he spat, “We are here to aid the templars and the Chantry however we can. Do you understand me?”

Avalon rolled her eyes and pushed his finger away, “For the love of Andraste, Tarius, you really are a pretty idiot.”

She shoved his chest back and stepped off from the wall.

“My reasons for being here are my own, and you’d do well to remember that.”

She went to move past him but he grabbed her wrist and whipped her back around. His presence transformed before her. Once bedecked and beautiful, now monstrous and terrible. His eyes blazed in his head and his dark hair had come askew from the wax he’d put in it to make it hold. He looked a little crazed, she thought. And so must she. They were truly ugly beasts without drinks in their hands.

“Avalon I’m warning you -“ 

“Is everything all right here?”

A different voice combed through the shadows. Both she and Tarius turned to find a qunari mercenary at the end of the hall. His horns glinted in the meager light above his head and she saw gold caps on the ends of them. She’d never had much contact with the qunari before. All she had were stories from Kirkwall, and those were enough to scare anyone. This qunari however, had just come to her rescue. 

She ripped her wrist from Tarius’s grasp and stalked away from him.

“Everything is fine,” she purred as she passed the qunari, “I was just telling my husband what an absolute cock he is.”

And then she plunged headfirst into the crowd. There were enough people now to completely lose herself among the crush of bodies. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and her family as she could. With luck, the proceedings would begin and there’d be no time to get back to them. She quite enjoyed the idea of sitting alone as an independent party throughout the talks. 

She kept walking, with no direct destination in mind, and gleaned the topics of conversations through bits and pieces as she passed. Mages, templars, the Divine herself, Kirkwall, ,Ostwick, the Imperium. She blended into a haze of accents and scents from all over Thedas. The anonymity was comforting. Perhaps she could slip away forever and never have to go back home. A selfish, childish thought, but one made all the same.

All she could do was pray the Maker was with her, and he would see these talks come to fruition. Thedas needed peace more than ever before. All the collective breath in the room was held on waiting for a plunge into either more darkness, or revival. 

Across the way, she suddenly spotted a head of hair the same shade as her father’s. A dark, honey blonde that only her brothers had inherited, while the girls had all received Lady Joana’s dark locks. She wasn’t certain why she’d zeroed in on that head in particular, but then the man it belonged to turned around. 

All the air emptied from her lungs. 

_“Colton?”_


	5. Chapter 5

9:41 DRAGON | THE CONCLAVE PT. 2

Avalon pushed through the crowd like a madwoman. She reached the steps and near tripped over her skirts in an effort to get to him. 

“Colton! _Colton!_ ” 

He turned just as she approached, “Avalon?!”

She barreled into him with the full force of her. He’d always been scrawny, but she felt the steadiness of muscle keeping them both upright as he caught her in his arms and wrapped her in his embrace. She held him close, hands running through the hair at the back of his skull as if she needed more tangible proof he was truly there before her. 

“Maker’s breath, I thought you were dead,” she wept over his shoulder. 

She pulled back almost as quick as she’d come and grabbed for his face. She turned it this way and that, inspecting him for any injuries.

“I’m much tougher than a couple of templars, you should know that,” he attempted to joke. Always trying to lift her spirits. Even when there were fresh bruises over his eye and jaw and a gash barely healed at his temple. 

“My baby brother,” she sobbed and kissed his cheeks and his brow and his forehead. He let her, relaxing under her touch like a child melting into his mother’s arms. When she was satisfied, she wiped the wetness from under his own lashes, “What happened?”

He clasped her hands in his own and looked over her shoulder, “Let’s speak somewhere more private. Come, I’ll introduce you to my friends.” 

He lead her up another set of steps to a small gathering of weary, but bright eyed men and women around his age. Some were even younger, with long cuts on their faces as if they’d been running through whipping branches for most of the night. They looked hungry and tired. The older enchanters, likely teachers from the looks of their collective grey hairs and crows feet, looked even more so. It was likely them she had to thank for Colton’s safety. She made a note to thank them before Colton lead her towards the center of the group of younger mages. 

When she got closer, she noticed their robes were caked in mud and torn to shreds. “Flames, what happened to you all?” she whispered.

Colton let her sit in one of the empty chairs and he sat adjacent to her. She didn’t miss the way he winced once his knees bent. She reached forward to grab his hands and they lowered their heads together. 

“We were attacked,” Colton said.

“By who?”

“Templars, they tried to kill us, the very ones who I’ve known since I was a boy,” Colton said, shaking his head in disgust, “Things were never the same after the rebellion in Kirkwall. They were harsher. Stricter. We could tell things were changing, but we weren’t sure how.”

Avalon frowned, “You never mentioned this in your letters.”

An apologetic smile crossed his face, “I didn’t want to worry you.” He brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss there. “You had your own troubles.”

“You could have told me you were in danger, Colton.”

“That was the thing, we weren’t sure if we were. Things were changing, yes, but we never suspected anything like this.”

Avalon reached for his face, her thumb passing over the bruises, “They hurt you.” 

“This is mostly just trying to get away,” Colton admitted with a laugh, “They don’t make the Circle easy to escape.”

“Your friends…are they-“

His face crumpled, “Not all were as lucky as we were.” He gestured his head back towards the group of frightened looking mages. They bowed their hands and wrung their hands together like they were waiting for the executioner’s block. 

Avalon squeezed her eyes shut, “Colton, I’m so sorry. I should have done something, I should have been there for you.”

“There was nothing you could have done to stop this, sister,” he tightened his grip on her hands, “There’s nothing anyone could have done.” 

She opened her eyes to find his face and he nodded at her. He was so very beautiful, untouched by his family, youthful and blonde with fair eyes and a sturdy chin. He was always too embarrassed to say so in his letters, but she was sure he had admirers. Even now there was a pretty young mage staring at the back of his head, as if she found solace there. 

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here?” Avalon asked. 

“Truthfully? I think this is the only safe place left,” Colton shrugged, “And if the Conclave fails, then there will be no where in Thedas that we are safe.”

“It won’t fail.”

“You have more faith in the people than I do.”

Avalon grasped for solutions, “Then you’ll come home, live under our protection.”

“If these talks fall through, our family would rather flay me alive than harbor an apostate, you know that, Avalon.”

“To the Void with them, then.”

Colton gave her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He looked so tired. She wondered how long it had been since he last slept, or ate. 

“Who else is here?” he asked.

“Emerson, Nicholas, Alexia, myself and Tarius,” she said, trying not to spit the last name from her mouth, “I think they should like to know you’re alive and well, even if they won’t admit it.”

Colton shook his head, “I can’t leave, not now. I have to…” he looked back over his shoulder at the group of mages, “I have to stay with them.”

She reached up to cup his cheek fondly, “Always the protector.” Then she stood and nodded determinedly. “I’ll bring them to you.”

Colton stood with her, a small glimmer of hope in his gaze. Avalon wasn’t sure her siblings reactions would be anything but forced politeness, or for the ever watching eyes, but somewhere deep down they had to care about their little brother. Perhaps the fact that he’d never been in direct competition with any of them would warm them to his sudden reappearance. 

“You’re sure?” Colton asked. Neither of them wanted to let go of the other. 

“I’ll be back in just a moment, don’t you dare move,” Avalon smiled, eyes wet with relieved tears once more. 

“I swear,” Colton put his hand to his heart.

“Just know when I get back, I am never taking my eyes off you again, not even for a second.” 

“Maker’s breath, Avalon.” 

“Don’t move.”

“I won’t.”

It took her a moment to leave, and when she did she had to check over her shoulder every few steps to make sure he was still standing there. The pretty mage she’d seen eyeing him earlier came to stand by his side and he put an arm around her. She watched the two of them until the crowd got too thick for her to see and she was forced to scout out her family. 

They weren’t a hard bunch to miss, fortunately. But with the sheer mass of people who had come for the proceedings, she was afraid it would be harder than expected. She climbed a staircase to the east to try and get a clearer vantage point. She was sure she’d see Alexia’s ghastly ballgown from miles away. 

It was then she detected a hum of noise farther down the hall. Indiscernible, but strange enough to pique her curiosity. Her eyes left the ballroom for just a moment and then - 

Bright.

Choking. 

Green flames, dirty pebbles under her nails.

Running, running, running. 

Her dress turned to black and strips of gold. 

A woman. 

Hand outstretched.

Too bright.

Too hot.

Something pierced straight through her palm. 

Then, crawling.

Bare feet in ashes. 

Black, soft soot. 

She fell. 

Ash in her mouth. 

And then there was nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

9:41 DRAGON | THE BREACH

The rift spread wide before her, like a flower aching for a drink of the sun. She thrust her hand upwards and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming as the pain shot down from her palm to the bundle of veins at her elbow. Light bolted from her hand. Magic. The fade. Whatever it was, it hurt. And it drove into the rift like her blade had plunged into the snow when she’d gone to strike down a wisp and it had disappeared before her. 

The rift snapped and magic spat back out as it closed and erased itself from the air above them. Avalon took a few trembling steps back and then clenched her palm to her chest. It felt like she was dunking her arm into sharp, jagged ice every time she did that. When the magic faded she swore she would see blood, and yet there was nothing. Just the scar across her palm. The flickering, eerie reminder that this was all very real. 

Colton was dead. 

It was a thought she kept returning to. They had scoured what felt like the entire expanse of the Frostbacks and that had repeated for her like a mantra. She was not ready to accept the other truths. That Emerson was dead as well, and Nicholas, and Alexia. Tarius too, and she was sickened by how each time her mind grazed the thought, comfort welled inside her. 

It was easier to focus on her grief. Colton was just a boy. A boy who had never asked for the life he was given. He was dead, along with the pretty mage girl who she’d last seen under his arm, along with all the rest of the mages from Ostwick’s circle, along with every single other living soul at the Conclave. Even the Divine had perished. 

All those people, respected leaders and elders, good, innocent people - dead. And it was Avalon who had fallen free into the ashes, spared by Andraste’s grace. 

The irony of it was enough to choke the life from her. 

“Lady Cassandra! You managed to close the rift? Well done.” 

He appeared from the edges of a snow drift, furs dappled with white flakes and his cheeks tinted red from the cold. His sword sat in its sheath at his hip and it glinted at her as he approached. The Seeker met his approach, her breath misting before her as she panted. 

“Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.” 

Avalon flinched at the title she’d assumed. Cassandra had been far gentler with her throughout the trek than she had been with her upon her first moments of consciousness. Still, Avalon was reminded that she was far from out of danger. Should she survive the journey to the Breach, what became of her after? Would they lock her up somewhere and cut off her hand to study it?

Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked. She was so needy for wine that just looking at all the blood spilled in the snow made her thirsty. 

“Is it? I hope they’re right about you.”

Avalon glanced up, feeling her throat clench. He was handsome, hair like warm sunlight and eyes fiercely narrowed. He stood a good head taller than her but she was not afraid when he closed in. His expression was disapproving, and yet sturdy enough for her to grasp hold of.

“We’ve lost a lot of good people getting you here,” he finished. 

She wondered if they all truly thought a Trevelyan of all people had blown up the Conclave. They were renowned for their bumbling inability to do anything but embarrass themselves and kiss the steps of the Chantry. They were infamous, certainly, but never hated. Never mistrusted. 

Yet here she was, under the disapproving eye of all those that surrounded her. She had woken in chains screaming Colton’s name. Perhaps she should have cried when they told her everyone was dead. Maybe then they would have believed her innocence. But she couldn’t cry. She couldn’t feel anything. 

Nothing but the slow, steady throb of her hand. And the lightning pulses that felt like nails pushing through her muscle and bone.

The sky cracked once more and this time there was no amount of clenching her teeth that could spare her from the scream that shot up from her belly. She bent double as the sound left her. Saw the edge of a gloved hand held out to catch her if need be. Every ounce of her wanted to fall to her knees and refuse to go any further. They would have to drag her there if they wanted her help so much. 

But the pain subsided and she was left panting, standing under the expectant gaze of four pairs of eyes. 

“We must hurry, before the Mark kills her,” the elven apostate murmured.

Avalon straightened up and willed herself to stop breathing so hard. The Commander kept his hand out, offered it to the side of her, wary as if she might keel over anyway. When she nodded, he turned to Cassandra and pointed a finger up at the mountain pass. 

“The way to the Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

Cassandra nodded and redrew her sword, “Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

Avalon kept her arm close to her chest and flexed her hand. She’d been groomed to play the game, hide her expressions when necessary, put appearances above truth. If she could do it in the pews of the Chantry then by Andraste’s grace, she could do it here. She tightened her jaw and inhaled lustily through her nostrils. 

“C’mon, kid,” the dwarf gestured his head at her, hefting his crossbow into his arms. 

Avalon nodded and began to walk. She caught the Commander’s eyes as he backed away to let the group pass. HIs expression was sullen and deep.

“Maker watch over you,” he heaved his breath in white clouds, “For all our sakes.”

Avalon turned her head over her shoulder to watch him run back among the troops. He hoisted a limping soldier under his arm and half dragged him through the snow to join the others. When she turned back around, she felt the dim green light washing over her. The Chant of Light came to her as she drew her sword and clenched her fingers around the hilt. 

_With passion’d breath does the darkness creep._   
_It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep._


	7. Chapter 7

9:41 DRAGON - HAVEN

“You there! There’s a shield in your hand, block with it!” 

The young recruit balked, flustered to the point of immobility. His sparring partner whipped him on the side of the arm with the blunted sword once more without opposition and then turned to Cullen, incredulous. Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Avalon observed fondly for a few moments before approaching. She was fresh from the Storm Coast, armor still shimmering from the sea spray and legs aching from the rough terrain. The Grey Warden hunt had been fruitless and other than adding a capable mercenary group to their ranks, the trip had been mostly a waste. Nonetheless, she found herself warmed by Cullen’s presence among the troops. 

“Commander,” she announced her presence with a polite smile, “Working them hard, I see.” 

Cullen straightened up at her approach, eyes widening a fraction. “Herald!”

The soldiers stopped what they were doing and bowed in turn. Avalon laughed. She was having a hard time getting used to anyone respecting her presence. Her name and face were often coupled with Trevelyan infamy. Any respect she was given was often forced for etiquette. And always underneath the prudent smiles were glittering fangs, ready to tear her open. 

Avalon didn’t dislike the change, but she wasn’t exactly comfortable with it either. It was easy to be infamous. All you had to do was dump wine on the nearest rival and the public was sated for the evening. Being the Herald, however, came with a bit more responsibility. 

“You’ve returned,” Cullen placed his hands on the hilt of his sword, “How was the Storm Coast?”

“Wet,” Avalon laughed. He permitted her a smile in return. 

She nodded towards the stunned silent recruits, specifically to the one who had the look of a frightened animal even before she approached. 

“Might I join you?” she asked.

Cullen lifted his eyebrows in surprise but gestured a hand to the sparring ground all the same, “Of course.”

She thought she heard the nervous recruit swallow as she moved forward and unhitched her shield from her back. She slid her arm through the straps on the back and then stood beside him. 

“I want you to stand on my left,” she instructed, “And I want you to copy my every movement.”

She gestured to his shield when he stared blankly. The recruit nearly dropped the thing from fumbling once his understanding pieced together. In a moment he had it slid through his arm and stood braced like she was, sweat dappling his brow even in the cold mountain air. 

“Fantastic,” Avalon grinned and then turned to his partner, “Now I’m going to spar with your friend here, but you’re going to follow my movements from the side.”

The recruit nodded. Avalon motioned to the other solider and he braced his legs, raising the blunted sword. He looked just as apprehensive about hitting the Herald of Andraste and sent a mildly panicked look to Cullen, who nodded. He took a steeling breath and then rushed for her. Avalon was ready, lengthening her stride before moving her arm up to block the hit. Once more to the left, to the right, all the while watching out of the corner of her eye to make sure the recruit was following along. 

Her shield angled down before she thrusted up to meet the last hit. She threw her body into the block and the soldier went sprawling backwards into the snow and rocks. His sword skidded away from him and he lay there for a moment, breath pluming above him. Avalon laughed merrily and offered a hand to help him up. 

“Herald,” the man panted in thanks as she lifted him from the ground. 

Avalon turned to the other recruit and hooked her shield along her back once more, “All right, now do what you just did. This time, with an opponent in front of you.” 

The boy skittered before the soldier and raised his shield arm. Avalon came to stand beside Cullen with her arms folded over her chest. She felt him cast a sidelong glance at her and her eyes crinkled in the corners. 

The two went at it before them. This time, the recruit threw up his arm just in time to stop a hit. He didn’t quite catch the second one, but he did stop the third, and the sixth. 

“Marvelous!” Avalon called out, “That’s it!” 

They watched for a while longer until the recruit seemed to get the hang of it. Cullen told them to carry on and gestured for Avalon to walk with him. They passed the tents and training grounds on the outskirts, their footsteps crunching and breaths misting before them. 

“That was quite an inspired method,” Cullen mentioned, gazing at her from his profile with a smile. 

Avalon laughed, “When I was training to be a templar, there was a boy just his age who was terrified of near everything that moved. One of the instructors tried that with him and a few months later he was unstoppable.”

“You were training to be a templar?” Cullen asked in surprise, then recanted, “I might have guessed, the way you use your shield.”

Avalon made a face. She chose her words carefully, not interested in offending him. “I was, though I stopped before I could ever claim the title.”

“May I ask why?”

She paused. The question had a thousand different answers. She went for evasiveness rather than any other alternative. “When I was young I wanted to be just like my older brothers. When I grew up, I decided the opposite.” 

They came to a stop on a hill above the training grounds. The wind whipped the leather of her armor flush against the silverite tipped scales. She watched his furs blow about his throat and shoulders, tendrils grasping onto snowflakes and then letting them go in the same gust. 

“Your brothers were templars?” Cullen asked. 

“Emerson and Nicholas, yes. They died at the Conclave.” She said it with so little inflection that she surprised herself. 

Cullen stammered for grace, “I’m sorry -I shouldn’t have asked.”

Avalon shook her head, “We weren’t close.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Thankfully the scene below them was easy to feign distraction. Recruits banging swords against one another. Shields crackling under the weight. Avalon was reminded of her youth. When she was too young to see anything but heroism in her brothers. They would spend all morning out in the field and her arms would be sore and bruised from sparring. She’d be dripping sweat and have her hands cracked with blood and blisters by the time they were finished, but she loved it so. 

Emerson had been kind then. Nicholas full of excitement. They had been close once. But those were just memories, and they dulled in comparison to the jewels and extravagance that filled their later years. 

“I have a brother, Branson. Two sisters as well, Mia and Rosalie,” Cullen said all of a sudden. 

“Are you close?”

“We are, though my communication skills have waned in the last few years,” he laughed, “I keep meaning to write but things have been…busy.” 

She gazed at him freely, admiring the light as it passed over his jaw, “I’m sure they miss you.” 

Cullen chuckled, “Ours was a very _loud_ household. I cherished my time alone for it was the only time I could hear myself think clearly.” He sighed, eyes far away. “Now I wish I had cherished the time spent with them more.”

He startled all of a sudden, eyes widening and color rising to his cheeks. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to regale you with the dull tales of my childhood.”

“I like learning more about you,” she answered, smile coy. 

He stammered a bit more and then cleared his throat into his fist. “Yes, well -tell me more about yourself. I fear I know very little about your life before the Inquisition.” 

“That’s probably for the best.”

Cullen’s face creased, a flinch of hurt crossing his eyes. _Nicked his feelings, well done, Avalon._

“Oh no, no! I just mean I’d rather your impression of me remained uncolored by my past,” she said, “Though I suppose my life before the Inquisition is hardly a secret.”

Cullen looked pointedly away. 

Avalon smirked, “You’ve heard stories.”

“No,” Cullen shook his head, and then at her raised eyebrow relented, “Well -perhaps a few, but I imagine they were all exaggerated by some grand degree by the time they got to my ears.”

“Not by much, if I were to guess.” 

She sighed, feeling the inevitability of the conversation rising to a crescendo. She folded her gloved hands and flexed her numbed fingers. 

“My family hated each other for the most part, all of us clamoring for public favor and trying to see who could shame themselves into the spotlight. We fought and sabotaged one another left and right, it was like a circus,” she smiled a bit and then shrugged, “We weren’t much of a family, but I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Cullen’s brow faltered. Sympathy creased his scarred mouth before his eyes softened to a warm, buttery hue that she was not used to seeing. She stared at his feet instead, but could not quite get the sensation of heat off her. 

“Well, despite your family’s indiscretions, you have obviously grown into a strong, capable woman. A feat you have managed all on your own, it seems. That is no small thing,” Cullen said. 

It was Avalon’s turn to be surprised. Being made to feel humble was not something she was used to accepting, but it washed over her seamlessly and warmed her to her core. 

“Strong _and_ capable? Be careful, Commander, or your Herald will get a big head.”

She delighted in the blush that suddenly crept across his cheeks. Avalon was so struck by how different he was from Tarius. Cullen was warm and golden, strong but boyish. He commanded attention for entirely different reasons than her husband had. And he melted his layers off like ice in the sun when they spoke. The sternness washed away and was replaced with warm cheeks and dimpled smiles. 

_“Commander Cullen!”_

A scout ascended the hill with a paper clenched in his gloved fist. He panted as he reached the top and thrust it at Cullen, “The Lady Ambassador sent these for your signature.”

Cullen, seemingly relieved at the interruption, cleared his throat and nodded. He took the papers and folded them under his furs, watching as the scout ran back down the hill. “Duty calls,” Cullen said dryly. 

“I won’t keep you,” Avalon smiled when he turned his head over his shoulder. 

He bowed a bit and turned, starting the descent. He stopped a few steps down and halted.

“Herald.”

“Yes?”

Cullen glanced up at her, “The Inquisition is family if you’ll have it.”

The sentiment struck her hard in the chest. She felt herself melting out along the snow. All the sounds of the sparring below, the clanging from the blacksmith and the music from the tavern began to fill her empty places. She smiled.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen nodded once, and continued back down the hill. 

She watched him until he reached the bottom and then let out the breath she’d been holding.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TW: self-harm]

9:35 DRAGON | 20 YEARS OLD

The party was dull affair and her betrothed was nowhere in sight. Since her engagement to Lord Tarius Vasselly, social events had consistently become less and less of a chore. News of the upcoming marriage managed to take precedence over any other antics the Trevelyan children might have stirred up. There was a bit of a grace period, so to speak, and Avalon had delighted in simultaneously being the center of attention and not having to sacrifice her dignity for it. 

Though, she knew it would not last. The public was always hungry for the next thread of gossip, and her family all too eager to weave it for them. 

Of course, it wasn’t just the Trevelyans who made fools of themselves. Sometimes, others did it for them. 

“The Duke is my husband, not your plaything.” 

The voice surprised her. Even through the stupor of brandy, Avalon managed to flinch at its proximity. She turned from a conversation she was barely invested in having to find the Duchess of some province she couldn’t remember the name of standing in front of her. 

“Excuse me?” she asked blearily. 

The Duchess raised her flask of wine and promptly dumped it over Avalon’s head. Someone shrieked for effect, most likely Mariela, and the party went silent. Avalon blinked through the flow of red. She licked her lips and squeezed her eyes shut until the wine spilled from her lashes. 

“You stay away from Cedric, you filthy girl,” the woman hissed.

It was only then Avalon realized who she was talking about. Duke Cedric Burgess had been a long time frequenter of Trevelyan soirees. He was older, and loved his drink just as much as the next Marcher, and he and Avalon had always gotten along rather well. She considered him an eccentric uncle of sorts who delighted in bringing her the finest vintage wines from his stores and instilling small confidences in her when he could. 

Little things, like supporting her critiques of the Chantry and templars, including her in discussions, sharing drinks with her and toasting to her ending her templar training. He was never inappropriate, merely invested in her success. Perhaps he always knew she was better than what her family designed for her. He and the Duchess had no children of their own, and Avalon always fancied that he adopted her in a sense.

They were not far enough in age to discourage suspicion, however. Rumors of their affair began around her eighteenth birthday. Duke Burgess was powerful enough to deflect them with a wave of his hand, and Avalon was too self-absorbed to even try and refute them. The scandal went quiet eventually, though she and the Duke changed nothing about their relationship, and soon the public was onto bigger and better schemes. 

Avalon had forgotten about the gossip until just this very moment. It seemed the Duchess had not. 

A prideful woman, almost an equal to Avalon’s own lady mother. Mistresses weren’t uncommon, even in the Free Marches, but even Avalon knew there was a difference between the slight of a mistress and the slight of a young girl. 

“Rather uncivilized of you, Lady Burgess,” Avalon eventually said through dripping lips. 

“No more uncivilized than putting your hands on a married man,” the Duchess sniffed, “While you yourself are betrothed.” 

Avalon felt a twinge of cruelty rise up in her. She was sure Tarius was around the ballroom somewhere, no doubt looking in on the altercation. Flames of embarrassment colored her cheeks. She wanted to be elegant for him. He had so much power, so much class - gold sewn doublets and summer stone encrusted brooches. She wanted to be worthy of him. And instead the Duchess had made her into a child once more. 

So she welled the cruelty in her mouth, turning it over on her tongue a few times before deciding to actually release it. She crafted a wry, terrible smile at the Duchess. 

“I see now why Cedric prefers me,” she said. 

It was a lie, a callous one at that. It would hurt the Duke when he found out and likely ruin one of her only friendships at court. But Avalon didn’t care. The Duchess wanted to cause a scene? Now she had one. 

The woman gasped and her hand went up as if to smack Avalon, but thought better of it. Her fingers curled in on her palm and she lowered her arm to her side. A shuddering breath passed through her lungs. 

“You are a terrible, rotten child,” she whispered. 

Then she turned and stalked away, the scarlet train of her dress catching droplets of wine at Avalon’s feet and smearing them like blood. Guilt wracked Avalon immediately. She stared after the Duchess, dazed. In the aftermath, a few women Avalon didn’t know surrounded her and tried to brush the wine from her face with handkerchiefs. Just as there was always someone ready to throw a Trevelyan to the dogs, there were others just as eager to win favor by cleaning up the mess. 

“You poor thing!”

“What a ghastly thing of her to do!”

“Are you all right, my lady?”

Avalon pushed them away. She hiked up her skirts and ran through the crowd. The party resumed as if nothing had occurred, but she could hear the band playing her melody. Her name the lyrics on everyone’s lips. And the worst of it all? Just as she was passing through the threshold of the ballroom, she saw Tarius in the crowd. His expression was indescribable, wrapped up in clean shaven cheeks and a tightly pressed mouth, but all the same -there was no question he had seen the entire ordeal.

_Terrible, rotten child._

Avalon ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. She tore the jewels from her neck, from her ears, from her wrists, and then leaned over the basin to wash her face. She scrubbed at her cheeks until they were raw and pink from the frigid water. Then she stumbled to her vanity and sat like a melted pool of gold before the mirror. 

Her breath was short. The crushing grip of shame had sobered her up plenty, but now the walls had switched from spinning to closing in. She pulled the drawer in front of her open with such force that everything inside crashed to the front. Delicate hands sifted through the mess until they found their prize.

A small dagger. A lady’s dagger, her mother had called it when she’d slid it into her hands on her fourteenth birthday. It was a beautiful thing, with its ruby studded hilt and thin, everite edge. 

“Every lady should have a dagger by her bedside,” Lady Joana had explained to her on that day. Of course, it wasn’t as if any of the Trevelyan girls had need to use their daggers. Both templars and a family guard stood vigilant around the estate and kept whatever Lady Joana feared at bay. The daggers became more of a sentiment than anything.

But Avalon had found an uncomfortable kind of solace with hers. Just as sharp as it was years ago, the edge fine and luminescent, she folded it into her hand and ran her thumb up the grooves in the hilt. With her free hand, she drew her skirts up until they pooled in her lap. Her white thighs quivered as the cold air from the open window hit them. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. 

The myriad of scars already present gave her pause. It was never a decision she came to lightly. But the stench of wine refused to leave her skin, and the Duchess’s fury played back and forth for her like a song. Avalon felt the crushing force of a sea of expectant, laughing faces. The tittering of the girls she barely knew, trying to clean her up, as if she was some fixture in the ballroom someone had knocked askew. 

“I am not a game, I am not a game, I am not a game,” she began to whisper to herself, hand shaking as she pressed the edge of the blade against the soft skin of her thigh. 

The bite of the blade cooled something in her chest. The longer the line went across her leg, the more the walls began to recede from around her. She steadied her breath as the blood began to well.

It was never about punishment. Or perhaps it was, in ways she could not quantify. 

To Avalon, it was merely a way to stay in control. 

Because to the rest of the world, her body was an object. Her mouth was a catalyst, her breath a rumor, her hips twisting through a thousand unseen hands. She knew this was wrong, and yet it was the only way she felt she could claim her body for herself. This was something no one else could touch. This kind of calm was something only she could give herself.

Soon her whispers quieted and blood spoke louder. She was just on the edge of being in control when the door burst open and her sisters barged in.

Avalon covered her legs quickly but there was little enough to be said. Mariela clicked her tongue while Alexia closed the door behind them.

“Honestly, Avalon, aren’t you getting a bit old for that?” she sighed, “You’re about to be married!”

Alexia gave a shrill laugh, “Tarius doesn’t care what’s on her thighs, only what’s between them.”

The twins cackled together. Avalon set the dagger onto the vanity and straightened her dress over her legs. She felt the sticky blood catching on the fabric underneath and held back a grimace. 

“Please leave,” she whispered. She had no fight left in her tonight. No hate besides that which she kept for herself. 

Mariela and Alexia exchanged a look, equal parts clever and sinister. 

“What kind of sisters would we be if we left you in such a state?” Mariel asked with feigned sweetness.

“Yes,” Alexia moved forward, “We only want to take care of you, Avalon.” 

She lunged forward and grabbed the end of Avalon’s dress. She heaved it up before Avalon could wrestle away and gasped for effect at the state of her legs. 

“You told mother you were done with this nonsense!”

Avalon ripped the dress from her hands and backed away towards the vanity. The twins closed in on her like vultures.

“It’s none of her business, just as it’s none of yours,” she said hotly. 

Mariela shrugged, sending her twin a look, “Perhaps she’s right, Alexia. It’s not our business. Once you’re married, your lord husband will have to deal with you.”

Alexia picked up right where she left off, not missing a beat, “Tarius should be informed.”

Tears sprung to Avalon’s eyes instantly. A dark red blush covered her cheeks and she dug her hand in the still open drawer of the vanity and grasped for anything she could. A flask of perfume. A few pens, rolls of parchment. She began to pitch them all at her sisters while screaming.

“Don’t you dare! You have no right!”

Alexia hid behind Mariela, laughing, “She’s gone mad!”

When she was out of things to throw, Avalon braced herself against the chair, panting. Mariela smiled and came forward, curling an icy hand under her chin. 

“Poor, poor Avalon,” she whispered in the aftermath, “Tarius will be sorry he married you.”

Avalon sank to the chair. Mariela linked her arm in Alexia’s and whispered something before the two left the room. Avalon raced to the door to slam it behind them, only for the echo of the wood crashing against the walls to not be loud enough to cover their laughter. Hot tears ran down her cheeks instantly. Through wet eyes she found her desk and unfurled Colton’s last message with shaking hands. Her tears dripped against the parchment. The ink bled, but remained legible. 

_And don’t forget, sweet sister, the Maker is with you always. He loves you as I do._

_When you are frightened, and when things seem terrible, remember these words:_

_Maker, through the darkness comes upon me,_  
_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
_I shall endure._  
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._


	9. Chapter 9

9:41 DRAGON | DESTRUCTION OF HAVEN PT.1

Gaining the mages had been no small task. And it was not one that was met with overwhelming support either. Everywhere she turned, there was another opinion. A disapproving glare. The mages whispered, the soldiers worried, and Avalon felt more the fool for thinking she could handle it all. 

She wouldn’t have changed her decision though, had she the chance. Colton had been fresh in her mind as ever when the mages looked to the Inquisition for support. They deserved to be their allies, not their prisoners. But the consequences of such a decision had been more monumentous than she’d anticipated. Her companions’ reactions ranged from scathing disapproval to wary support. She wondered which of them knew she was just a child playing with forces she didn’t truly understand, and which were too scared to admit it. 

The Breach had been sealed. That was comfort enough for the time being. Avalon had returned to her tiny cabin inside Haven’s walls to drink alone in celebration. There was music coming from the taverns. Fires sparking and roiling in pits all throughout the town. Laughter, the shuffling of dancing feet in the snow. She tipped her head back and drank her fill of cheap mead until she was drunk enough to forget how many lives depended on her. 

She stumbled from the cabin deep into the evening and stood on the crest of the hill to let the cold wind snap at her cheeks. Townspeople danced below her. Their bodies swirled like the snow drifts coiling and lashing out among the rocks. 

Cassandra approached from behind her. Truthfully, Avalon didn’t pay much attention to the conversation that ensued. She was comforted by her presence, but gleaned only sensory information from her. The steadiness of her body, the smell of grass on her, the meaningless confidences traded between them. She trusted the Seeker more than trusted anyone else here. But Avalon was careful not to let her get too close, lest she smell the alcohol on her breath. 

Whether Cassandra knew she was drunk or not, she didn’t get the chance to say anything on the subject. Bells began to ring. Incessant and throbbing as the laughter and music stopped. Avalon could feel the rhythm pounding into her skull. Her eyes lifted to the Frostbacks where they stood elegant and somber out ahead. A trail of light a thousand bodies strong made a gold snake down the mountain pass. Her stomach turned to acid. 

She was allowed a few minutes to wrest her armor from the chest by her bed in her cabin. Outside, the tone of Haven had changed. Running, scampering feet. The cries of children. Flasks breaking. Armor scraping.

Avalon shouldered into her armor, dizzy but determined. “Andraste guide me,” she whispered, though she knew she had no right to ask. Selfish, rotten child, drunk while the Inquisition was in danger. What good was she? She did not deserve to be the Herald. 

Not for the first time, she cursed the Maker’s design. 

_It should have been Colton. Not me._

—

The first half of the battle was a blur of red. Avalon was unsure if it was the wine or the red lyrium growing like bone from the metal tinted chests of the templars that colored it so. Regardless, by the time they got the second trebuchet up and running, her vision swam and her stomach wrenched back and forth as if someone were playing catch with it. There was a brief moment of victory as the snow thundered down the face of the mountain. A rallying call went up around the soldiers.

Then, the dragon appeared. 

The trebuchet exploded in a haze of blood red light. It splintered like tinder and threw Avalon back into the snow. Icy powder went down the back of her armor. When she turned her head, she watched the snow drink the blood from a newly formed gash in her head. 

Beside her, Cassandra heaved herself to her feet, “Maker!” 

Varric started to backpedal from the wreckage, eyes reflecting the stars, “Shit! Who ordered the end of the damned world?!”

Avalon climbed to her feet. The sensation of sweat dripping down her spine and blood spilling on her brow clashed against the feeling of her numb fingers gripping the hilt of her sword. She shook her head, bleary, and began to run. 

“Everyone back to the gates!”

The party followed with scarce a word between them. All that accompanied them were the sounds of their boots crunching in the snow and the guttural, metallic shrieks of the beast overhead. She’d read about dragons in books. Entertained a girlish penchant for them once upon a time, much to Cassandra’s chagrin when she admitted it. 

But this was nothing like the stories. 

“Move it! _Move it!_ ”

A voice broke through the residual sounds of terror. Avalon looked up as they neared the gate to find Cullen rushing soldiers and civilians through. She glanced back over her shoulder to find that her party were the only ones left. The rest ran through and Avalon followed. Once inside, she braced her hands on her knees and panted as Cullen and Cassandra slammed the gates shut. 

She straightened up when Cullen moved past her. His eyes blazed. “We need everyone back to the Chantry! Its the only building that might hold against that… _beast!_ ” 

He climbed the stairs but turned, brow knitted down. She felt the world shrink to the space between his eyes and hers. Avalon felt naked and incompetent. Worst of all, afraid. 

He stared at her for a moment longer. Then, began the ascent once more.

“At this point, just make them work for it.”

Avalon vowed to do just that, but halfway past the merchants abandoned cart she opened a red templar from his shoulder down to his hip and her stomach wrenched. She reeled back and vomited into the snow. Dark wine, like blood, fell from her lips as she coughed and stumbled to keep standing. 

Thankfully, the others were well absorbed in their own fights and didn’t know drunken sickness from complete and utter revulsion. She felt Dorian put a barrier up over her as she heaved the last few shuddering breaths.

“Come on, Herald,” Varric called out, “We can do this!” 

His encouragement was just enough to get her back on her feet. Being sick seemed to have sobered her up as well. She hit harder. Ran faster. 

But never fast enough.

_“Watch out, the flames will reach the pots!”_

Cassandra appeared on her right, and Blackwall on her left. The three of them pulled the fallen beams from Minaeve. Adan’s voice carried over to Avalon above the roar of flames. The red lines of flames ran like worms from the burning cabins. 

“Herald!” Cassandra barked at her as she went for him next.

The flames bit at her cheeks and burned her lungs. Adan’s wet eyes went orange against the fire, staring at her endlessly, seared into the part of her memory that would not forgive. Cassandra ripped her back from him just as the pots exploded. Ash and clay rained around them and Avalon choked out a sob that was lost to the inferno. 

There was no time to mourn. That was one thing she had learned in excess. There was never time to mourn. Not her brother, not the Divine, not the countless innocents caught in the war and not the civilians she couldn’t save. No time to weep over the arrow that bit deep and dark into her shoulder, nor the blade that slipped against her ribs. _Keep going, keep going._ She began to chant it under her breath. 

She recited it until her throat went raw and they finally spilled into the safety of the Chantry. Chancellor Roderick fell back within the doors into the arms of the strange boy who had greeted them at the gates. Avalon moved past them, smelling blood everywhere and praying her stomach wouldn’t roil again.

“Herald!”

Cullen appeared from hall. He jogged towards her and she met him in the middle of the floor. He slowed as he reached her and she felt his eyes linger on the blood wetting her armor. 

“Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us,” he said in a low voice. 

The boy, Cole, joined the conversation, “I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Cullen snapped, “It’s cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!” 

Avalon pressed a palm to the wound in her shoulder. She only half remembered ripping the arrowhead out during the battle. Blood wet her glove but she felt no warmth from it. 

Cole glanced at her from beneath the brim of his hat, “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.” 

“Then let him take me,” she winced, “I won’t have any more die here today.”

Cullen frowned. He turned and caught a healer by the elbow just as she was passing. They exchanged something and when he turned back around he passed Avalon a wadded up strip of cloth, nodding to her shoulder. 

“It’s not that simple,” he continued, “There are no tactics to make this survivable.” 

She took the cloth from him, blood passing between their gloves, and bunched it hard against the hole in her shoulder. She clenched her jaw to keep from grimacing and tasted the sour wine left on her tongue. 

“The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide,” Cullen said. 

Avalon closed her eyes, “We’d bury Haven.”

When she reopened them, she found the Commander’s face drawn. He came half a step closer to her, so that their words might not be overheard. This close, she could see the gold threads of his lashes. The hint of stubble along his jaw and chin. 

“We’re dying, but we can decide how,” he said, “Many don’t get that chance.”

Avalon swallowed. Perhaps he was right. Colton never got that chance. Would he have taken it now, had their roles been reversed? She felt tears well in the corners of her eyes and shut them again to keep anyone from seeing. She was not a child. She was the Herald, and Andraste was with her. If these were her last moments, she would walk into them shielded by flame. 

The conversation continued in a haze. It was Cole that broke the first crest of hope for them. And then Roderick, his voice barely above a bloodied whisper. He spoke of a path.The older man stood and reached out. He grabbed for Avalon's good shoulder with a gnarled hand and shook her gently in his fervor.

“If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident,” he coughed, “You could be more.” 

And just like that, the decision was made. Her new mantra turned to crystal inside her head. She heard it spoken by a hundred different voices. 

_You could be more._

_You could be more._

_You could be more._

She turned, eyes hard, “Cullen, will it work?”

He looked bleary for a moment, struck by the plan. He blinked before dipping his head in a nod, “Possibly. If he shows us the path. But what of your escape?” 

Avalon looked away. The promise of death did not scare her as much as it ought to. It settled over her delicately, like a butterfly perched on her shoulder. There might be release in it. She could join Colton. Pass this responsibility onto someone else more deserving. It seemed like a noble, fitting end for a girl who should have never been here in the first place. 

She heard Cullen take a breath. Then, his hand touched her elbow. It was the softest of touches, gentle and steady, the kind of touch that promised it would hold if given the chance. She turned into it, and his hand grazed the length of her forearm before dropping away. 

“Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way…” he said, letting his voice trail off. 

They shared a look before he pulled away and began to command the soldiers within the Chantry walls. Beside her, Cole hefted the Chancellor up from his seat once more. The older man reached out for her, this time his fingers brushing clumsily at the red spattered wound on her shoulder. Avalon did not flinch, merely watched as he gazed at her through milky eyes.

“Herald…if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.”

He passed her, and she exhaled a breath she’d been holding. Around her, the Chantry bled out as the soldiers pushed open the doors and rushed out with the wounded and dying. Cole lead the pack with Chancellor Roderick stumbling at his side. The wind swept through them and made the candles inside shudder.

Cullen returned to her when the Chantry emptied, “They’ll load the trebuchets. Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line.”

Avalon nodded to assure him she understood. A stab of cold caught her lungs as she inhaled sharply. 

“Commander?”

He came to stand beside her, “Yes?”

“What do you do when you’re afraid?”

A pause. 

He turned to her, searching for words, “I…I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What do you tell yourself when you’re scared? Do you pray? Do you call on a memory?”

He seemed then to understand the weight of her question. He inhaled through his nose and stared past her.

“I pray,” he said quietly.

The wind surged at them. It tore her breath away. Froze blood and sweat to her cheeks.

She licked her cracked lips and asked, “Will you pray with me?”

“Herald?” the surprise softened his tone.

“Anything that brings comfort,” she said, “Please.”

There was a long silence. Another shuddering roar from the dragon above. The Chantry seemed to shake around them and Avalon wavered on her feet. Finally, after what felt like centuries, Cullen’s voice grated warmly beside her ear.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.”

He glanced at her and she gave him a half smile. She buried herself in the low timbre of his voice. Let his strength be her strength.

“For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light,” he continued.

Avalon moved forward, feet edging toward the snow blowing across the threshold. She stopped short just before the door and drew her sword. 

Behind her, Cullen finished the prayer, “And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Avalon left the Chantry and did not look back, knowing if she did, the sight of him would undo her.


	10. Chapter 10

9:41 | THE DESTRUCTION OF HAVEN PT.2

Her ribs cracked on the way down. Wood and bone splintered as she landed in the belly of the cave. A low, wet cough scraped out of her. She did not move for some time. One eye peeled open and stared at the icicles dripping from the ceiling. Some were as tall as she was. Others were shaped like thin daggers. The ceiling glittered with needle-like points and winking edges. 

She wept brokenly, fingernails scraping on the frozen rock beneath her. The pain was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Her side felt as though it were ripping open. And the scar on her hand flickered and sparked to flame in the dark. Green washed the cave and made it look as though it was made of veridium. 

Avalon knew she should be dead. She had prayed for it, even, had lunged for the promise of a gap in the wooden boards at the last moment. Surely the fall would kill her. She thought it might be a kinder death than freezing below twenty feet of snow. But here she was, broken and bent but alive. This marked a second time that Andraste had pulled her free from the wreckage. Death would have been kinder. Simpler.

But the Maker never worked simply. 

Truthfully, she thought about lying there forever. She would succumb to her injuries or the cold eventually. Even the Maker could not bring a body back from death. Chosen or not, if she wanted to die, she simply had to wait. Her fate was not inevitable. 

But she found herself planting a hand against the stone beside her. Her knees scuffled in the pile of broken wooden planks that had sharpened her fall. Despite every sinew of her body protesting, Avalon swung herself up onto her hands and knees and inhaled a breath like she’d just surfaced out of the ocean. 

A scream wracked her. She curled inward, using her hand to clutch at her ribs. She could feel the grooves of broken bone underneath her skin. A shudder of revulsion passed through her before she clenched her teeth and got the rest of the way up. Now on her feet, she clutched her arm close to her side and began to walk. The fanged mouth of the cave seemed to open wider, smiling with pointed, icy teeth. Taunting her. Begging her to take another step, so it might swallow her whole. 

The image of Corypheus spurned her feet onward. She clenched her hand along the seam of green, crackling light in her palm. The Anchor. And how appropriately named, for she felt it dragging her back to the floor. Pain radiated up to her shoulder so white hot that she paused against the throat of the cave and shuddered. 

When it passed, she forced her feet back into shuffling. 

Perhaps she was nothing more than a drunken fool. A golden girl still stinking of the perfume and rot of her family. And yet, Chancellor Roderick’s voice returned to her so loud it seemed to echo off the walls of the cave. You could be more. Avalon had never been honorable a day in her life. By the time she was twenty-two and disenchanted with the world around her, she believed her time had come and gone. 

But here was purpose, dangling before her eyes. All she had to do was be brave enough to reach out and grab it. If defeating Corypheus was her last chance at redemption, could she afford not to take it? Sure, death would be simple. But she could not sit at the Maker’s side as she was now. If she had to die, she would make sure she did as someone who deserved His love. 

Corypheus was the answer. 

And if she was to have any hope of defeating him, she had to survive this. 

It was at that moment she saw light at the end of the cave. The poetic beauty of it made her cry out for it and she quickened her stumbling pace. Her boots slid down a few ice-slick stairs before a rift opened up before her. Green and blazing, she raised her hand to shield her eyes and power snapped through her body. The few demons that had materialized began to wither away, screaming loud enough to crack each icicle studded along the cave’s interior. 

Avalon began to jog through the last remaining wisps of the rift. Green tendrils drifted past her cheeks and hair until she was free of them, like an insect pulling itself from a web. A few more steps and she finally spilled out into the white expanse outside. She expected to see something familiar, anything, but her world was ivory. 

She took a step from the stone of the cave and watched in horror as her leg sank hip deep into the snow drift. The world mocked her. Now that she had decided to survive, it seemed ready to make every effort to ensure that she didn’t. A deep roar of flame started in her belly. She had lived most of her life doing things because others said she could not. Why should this be any different? She forced her other leg down into the snow, refusing to cry out at the shock of cold, and then began to plow her way through the drift. 

She walked for what felt like centuries. Wolves howled in the cream shadows behind her. Endless, black trees waved against the wind that bit and tore at her cheeks. Avalon lifted a hand to block the wind from her eyes. Green sparked and flickered at her lashes. 

Time ceased to exist at all. There were moments when she seemed to lose herself completely and would come back to awareness somewhere wholly different than where she last remembered. The scenery came and went. A long, endless plain of white. The dark tipped edges of a tree line. And finally, the crest of the mountain, where she found a pit with still warm embers. 

The cold had robbed near everything from her. The outer edges of her lips were blue, the insides black with blood. Her feet were lead stones, her hands full of needles. The only thing that burned consistently was the broken bones in her side. Each stab felt charged with fire. She feared losing that sensation completely. If she was in pain, she was alive. 

But just as the thought came to her, she could feel the numbing of her sensations. The wind ceased to sting her eyes. The cold became nothing. Her ribs sighed and relaxed into softness. She tore her leg free from the snow and slammed it into the next step. She thought her shins might be bleeding from where her breeches had ridden up and allowed the layer of ice over the snow to tear into her skin again and again. But she could not feel it. As she rounded the top of the hill, she felt nothing at all. 

One leg went out. 

Then the other. 

“P-please,” she whispered.

 _Andraste preserve me. Perhaps I have never been worthy of your love before this, but you must hear me now._

_Please._

_I am not ready to die._

Then a voice, like a crack of lightning through the howling wind.

“There! It’s her!”

She slipped sideways into the snow bank just as the torchlight from the scout party reached the top of the hill. Her face pressed into the cold powder, but over the swirling drift she made out Cullen’s broad, fur-lined shoulders running for her. Cassandra followed from behind, sheathing her sword as she neared. 

“Thank the Maker!” 

Cullen reached her first. As the group of scouts crowded around, he knelt into the snow beside her. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her gently from the snow, holding her upright while her head lolled to her chest. He relinquished one hand from holding her to undo the fastens of his cloak. He yanked it free of his shoulders and laid it across Avalon’s. 

“How did she survive this?” the Seeker asked in a whisper. 

Avalon’s body began to revive itself. The promise of safety and a new layer of heat roused sensation back into her limbs. Her teeth began to chatter in her mouth. Her fumbling, bloody hands grabbed onto Cullen’s shoulders for purchase as her body wracked with shudders. Her breath trembled, shallow and quick, in her lungs as she tried for words and could make none form.

“It’s all right,” Cullen assured her, in a tone much gentler than she’d ever heard him use, “I have you.” 

He tucked an arm under her knees and under her shoulders and lifted her up from the ground. The pain returned to her side and she screamed as her body folded against him. She buried her face against his chest and inhaled deeply. Woodsmoke. Metal. Prophet’s Laurel. 

Once long ago, she remembered reading of the plant in her studies. How when Andraste was lead to the pyre, her followers had thrown laurel in the street under her path. And that when her body burned, her ashes spread over the laurel. It was said that her ashes gave them their healing properties, and so the name was given. 

She remembered folding the dark, slick leaves through her hands by the steps of the Chantry as a child. 

“These leaves represent the Sword of Mercy,” the Chantry Mother had told her at the time. 

“And the berries are the drops of Andraste’s blood upon it,” Avalon recited. 

The woman smiled at her and leaned forward. She plucked the plant from her hands and tucked the stem behind Avalon’s ear. 

“Yes, and the laurel must always remind us of Andraste’s sacrifice, sweet girl.”

In the present, the pain finally quieted the memory. She inhaled the sweet scent of the plant on his clothes once more before her body fell limp. In the vice of Cullen’s arms, Avalon mercifully slipped into darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

9:41 DRAGON | SKYHOLD

Twilight had fallen over Skyhold. The guards had finished their evening rotations and most had returned to the campgrounds for supper before switching with the night guard. The ramparts were blissfully empty and dusted with the kind of sweet, rose-like color of evening. Avalon stood facing the mountains from whence they came. The sky was pink and hazed green from the tear. Ravens streaked the thin clouds with sharp wings. 

Avalon thought about leaving not for the first time. After Haven, she thought the Maker might be merciful and let her die of her injuries. When she survived and they trekked to Skyhold, she thought she might slip away into the woods and no one would notice her missing. Now that she was here, the walls were as real as any indication that she was here to stay. She drank into the night to make them seem smaller, but they still rose just as tall and encompassing the next morning. 

Avalon hoisted herself up onto the rampart. She placed her boots on the stone parapet and stood, wavering just once before steadying her balance and splaying her arms out wide. The wind rushed at her. Here, for the first time, she felt as there were no walls to keep her. One step over this edge and she could fall and fall and maybe never stop falling. Or perhaps she could lift her arms high enough and they would transform into wings. 

She tilted her head back and sighed. Forgot the dryness of her mouth. The itch to put more marks across her legs. She forgot everything but the air in her lungs and the wide open space around her. 

Footsteps caught her attention. Then, a familiar voice.

“You’re not planning on jumping, are you?” 

Varric, unmistakably. 

“No,” Avalon admitted. 

He chuckled, “Do I even want to know what you’re doing?” 

Avalon inhaled again. She did not open her eyes, but felt him settle next to her, below her. 

“Trying to become a bird,” she answered. 

“You mean like our Spymaster’s ravens? The ones that squawk and shit everywhere?”

Avalon couldn’t help but laugh, “No, just a bird. A nice one.” She opened her eyes, watching the snowcapped mountains grow dark, “Don’t you ever think about how easy their lives are? They can go anywhere they want, whenever they want.” 

“Personally, I’m happiest when I can keep both feet on the ground,” Varric shrugged below her, “But for you? I see the appeal.” 

There was a long silence. Avalon clenched her hands before stretching them out once more, as if her fingertips could reach both ends of Thedas.

“You know -no one’s an expert on this, and nobody expects you to be either,” Varric said after a pause.

“Am I that transparent?” 

He chuckled, “I’ve just spent a lot of time with tragic heroes. I know the type.”

“I am rather tragic, aren’t I?”

She finally looked at him, finding the warmth of his gaze just below the angle of her hip. He tilted his head up at her and leaned against the parapet next to hers. 

“Hey, the shit that happens to you is weird, no one’s gonna argue that,” he sighed, “But I’m here to remind you that you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

She smiled and then looked back to the mountains. The pointed peaks became soft and hazy in the setting light. 

“Thanks, Varric.”

“S’what I’m here for.” 

She heard him drum his hands on the stone parapet and then exhale, “You gonna stay up there for a while?”

“Mmm.” 

“All right, well there’s always a seat for you at the tavern -I can deal you into a game whenever you want.”

“Thank you, Varric. I mean it,” she said, meeting his eyes over her shoulder as he moved away from the edge. 

“Anytime, Birdy,” he smirked and gestured a lazy hand, “Just don’t fly off anytime soon -there’s a lot of people who’d miss you. Especially the Seeker. I think you’re the only friend she’s got.”

His laughter echoed along the stone ramparts until she could no longer hear his footsteps accompanying it. She resumed her position once she was alone, arms splayed out, sternum lifting to the darkening sky. Varric said she was not alone, but what if she wanted to be? Against the clouds, blissfully alone and irresponsible. Birds could be as selfish as they wanted. She stretched her arms farther, farther, until her spine curved and she felt her weight shift further against the wind. 

“You want to fly, but your wings are drenched in gold, they’re too heavy.” 

A voice from her left startled her. Avalon gasped and teetered forward. A cool hand reached and grabbed her wrist, pulling her gently back to center. Once she was steadied, she glanced back to find Cole staring at her from beneath the brim of his hat. 

“Cole,” she gasped. 

“You hurt, and I want to help,” he said, “Gold and rubies, swaths of silk, your mouth burns when no one’s looking but blood is never as good as wine.”

Avalon blinked, lowering her arms. Her lips parted softly but no words came out. Cole released her hand and stepped up on the parapet beside her. He looked out toward the mountains.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as the mark did, but it keeps you grounded, blood on your thighs helps but it’s never enough.”

Her eyes went wet with tears. She was stricken, unable to speak, unable to move. 

“I can help you heal, if you want. Your wings can be light and gold. You hate gold, but it can’t hurt you, not anymore.” 

He disappeared and then reappeared on her right side. 

“You won’t forget, but you’ll forgive.” 

Hope, like white cream, settled over her. Lovely flashes of sugar cakes, tart red apples, Colton’s laughter. Avalon smiled. Gasped with a wet laugh. Cole vanished a second later, but is voice lingered just long enough to murmur:

“Commander Cullen likes to watch you spar in the fields in the morning, sweat dripping from your collar, eyes blazing -he thinks you are strong and enchanting.”

He was gone. Avalon caught her breath, cheeks flushed red and chest stuttering with breath. She climbed down from the parapet and then braced her hands on the stone. 

_“Maker.”_


	12. Chapter 12

9:41 DRAGON | CULLEN’S QUARTERS

Avalon was still not used to such grandness. The Trevelyan estate had been lavish for certain, but it seemed like a mere cabin to the glory that was Skyhold. The beauty did not come without some sadness, however. The stone and mortar that built the walls were always cold to the touch, as if they remembered where the Inquisition hailed from. And how many they had lost there. 

It was a slow process, navigating the ramparts. She had ceased climbing onto the parapets at least. Not that it stopped Varric from referring to her affectionately as Birdy, to most everyone’s confusion. She wondered if they survived all of this, if the dwarf would write a story about her too. And if then he would finally spill the tale of how one night had caught her upon the ramparts, arms outstretched, hoping she might fly away. 

Cullen had sent her a message earlier in the day to meet with him. It was not something she looked forward to. There wasn’t anything about him she acutely disliked -but therein lay the problem. When she had first spoken to him upon reaching Skyhold, he had disarmed her with his concern. 

He had moved an inch closer, eyes so rich and warm they were like garnets. They had spoken of Haven with clenched hearts. He had looked away from her, brows drawn, something heavy collecting in his expression. She thought the conversation over with, and turned to leave. But he stopped her. 

“You stayed behind,” he all but whispered and reached for her elbow. 

Every part of her told her to run. Tear herself away from him like a page in a book, lest she get pulled into his warmth. It was indecent of her to feel any stirrings at all when her husband’s ashes were barely cooled at the temple. But, weak as she was, Avalon turned and came undone in his gaze. His thumb slid up against the veins of her elbow. 

“You could have…” he stopped himself, perhaps reigning himself in from the same impulses. He released her, jaw clenching. 

“I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again,” he said deeply, “You have my word.”

She hated him for that. Hated herself for wanting it. Since then, she had avoided him and drank to forget the memory. She was not a little girl any longer, and this was not her family’s court. There were far more important things to do than swoon over the Inquisition’s military commander. And too little of herself left at this point to even offer. 

But she could not very well ignore a message from him. So she steeled all of her resolve and just as evening descended upon Skyhold, she parted from Leliana and made her way to his quarters. She walked from the rookery down the winding tower, past Dorian who gave her a nod, past Solas who sat reading quietly at his desk, across the ramparts and then finally found herself at his door.

She pushed it open softly and found him leaning over his desk, staring down at a box. He looked up for a brief moment but said nothing. Avalon closed the door behind her and made her way to him. When she got closer, she recognized the object in question. The soft filaments of blue light glowed gently from within. 

Cullen inhaled deeply and began, “As leader of the Inquisition you…” He shook his head. “There’s something I must tell you.”

Something about his expression made her uncomfortable. The Commander rarely smiled as it was, but it was not the graveness of his face that alarmed her. It was something else. Something dark and heavy in his eyes that he was trying his best to conceal. She’d never seen him like this before. 

She moved closer as he moved to stand and braced his hands on the hilt of his sword. 

“You can tell me anything,” she assured him. 

“Right,” he said and she watched him exhale, “Thank you.”

The tenderness in which he said it made a lump form in her throat. All she had offered was to listen to him. Were such small kindnesses as foreign to him as they were to her? Cullen reached forward and shifted the box before bracing his hands on the wood finish of the desk. 

“Lyrium grants templars our abilities, but it controls us as well,” he started.

Avalon felt her body tense. Images of Nicholas, slinking in the shadows around the Trevelyan estate with wandering, glassy eyes and cracked lips left her shivering. 

“Those cut off suffer -some go mad, others die,” Cullen continued. 

“My brother,” Avalon murmured, “He…he was removed from the Ostwick circle after they found him hoarding his stores.”

Cullen glanced up, expression dismayed, “I’m sorry.”

She said nothing, merely concentrated on the box before him. 

“Then you know of it’s terrible cost better than most,” Cullen said after a pause. He closed the wooden lid and turned it away from him on the table. “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the templars here. But I…no longer take it.”

Fear spiked within her, “You stopped?”

“When I joined the Inquisition. It’s been months now,” he admitted, keeping his eyes focused on the desk. 

Avalon wanted to reach forward and pull at his chin until he looked at her. Her fingers burned, resisting the impulse. She took another step closer instead, eyes searching him. 

“Why?” she asked. 

He closed his eyes tightly, “After what happened in Kirwall, I couldn’t…”

Cullen stopped and picked up his head a fraction. He still would not look at her, but a grating edge sharpened all the lines of his face in a moment. His scarred mouth twisted down and she felt the weight of his pain threatening to sink the room. All of Thedas knew what happened in Kirkwall. It still baffled her that Cullen had been a part of it. She could not imagine the things he’d seen.

All the while, she’d been drinking herself into a stupor, drenched in gold, making a ruin of herself. 

“I will not be bound to the Order -or that life- any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it,” Cullen said sharply.

Avalon was struck all of a sudden by his conviction. He made it seem simple. Deciding to release his own chains, cut ties from one life to the next. Her mouth watered at the idea. What suffering would she accept to no longer be bound to her life before this? What would she endure?

Cullen straightened up again, “But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I’ve asked Cassandra to…watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.” 

She watched his jaw tighten as he spoke. When his words settled, she finally identified the emotion behind his eyes.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, voice delicate, wavering. 

Cullen did not miss a beat. He watched her evenly, “I can endure it.”

Avalon moved forward without meaning to. Her hips bumped the edge of the desk and she placed her fingers across it, as if touching the wooden edge was an extension of him. He was still as stone before her, so much unlike the man Tarius had been. The thought shamed her. 

“Cullen, I think what you’re doing is very brave,” she said and then focused her eyes on the metal chest piece beneath his armor, “I respect your decision.”

He stepped forward too, hands coming undone from resting on his sword. When she looked up, he seemed taken aback. His lines softened once more and he was made of golden curls and warm eyes yet again. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he said for the second time. And it broke just as hard against her. 

He thumbed at his jaw, eyes faraway, “The Inquisition’s army must always take priority. Should anything happen, I shall defer to Cassandra’s judgement.” 

Avalon nodded and took a step back from the desk. The conversation was over, but it felt hard to leave him like this. It was hard to leave him at all, which was why she spent so little time with him. His warmth was a web, reeling her in inch by inch, and if she was not careful she would succumb to the sweetness of him. It was not something she could afford. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Tarius had used up every fragment of her that was lovable, chewed them up and spit them back out. 

“Everything will be all right,” she said without meaning to. 

He glanced at her, eyes like dark honey, and gave her a nod. 

Once Avalon tore herself from his quarters, the sky was the color of dark blue velvet. She thought on their conversation all the way back down the ramparts, in through the grand foyer, and up to her own quarters. Immediately, she strode forward to her desk and reached under to retrieve the bottles she kept hidden away. Pilfered from the tavern, the kitchens, from merchants along the road when no one was watching. There were six total, and she laid them out on the desk meticulously, surveying each with the utmost scrutiny. 

She sucked in a breath, and grabbed the necks of the first two. She uncorked them with her teeth on her way out to the balcony, where the air was thick but cool, and then stood at the railing. Without hesitating, she turned both bottles upside down and watched the contents of them run into the night and disappear along the endless expanse of mountain below. 

She let go of the bottles too. They fell soundlessly, the bottom too far away to hear them shatter. But even without the sound she felt a sense of calm rush over her. Before she lost her resolve, she went back into her quarters to finish off the rest of the bottles. 

When all was said and done, her hands shook from excitement. She crawled into bed without a drink for the first night in almost ten years and stared up at the ceiling. 

_I will not be bound to that life any longer._


	13. Chapter 13

9:41 DRAGON | THE HINTERLANDS 

Avalon would admit to being overzealous by nature. She was inspired easily and often plunged headfirst into something that seemed like a good idea at the time. It was that very nature that had gotten her in trouble with alcohol in the first place. And it seemed, true to her nature, that the process was going to repeat itself. Only this time, in reverse. 

She was not handling sobriety as well as she might have hoped. Cullen made pain look simple. A simple line tensed in his jaw, a haunted but even look in his eye. I can endure it, he’d said to her in a voice so steady it made the obsidian edge of her longsword seem seem uneven. 

Avalon was not so gifted in the art of making suffering look elegant. She’d been groomed to mask her emotions at court, but the effect was always helped along with alcohol. Now, with a dry mouth and no party gossip to hide behind, Avalon wasn’t quite sure how to dissuade suspicion.

She supposed she could blame it on the heat. The Hinterlands had been struck by a warm spell that had lasted throughout the week. The air was thick and muggy around them. Camp was only a few miles up Avalon could feel herself fading. Her cheeks were red and puffing, her mind merely a cage that housed an incessant, dull throb. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since earlier that morning, though she’d gone to great lengths to conceal it.

When they blessedly arrived at the camp, Avalon sat down by the fire and tore off her boots. Once they were off, she threw them carelessly to the side and then ducked her head in between her knees. 

“Are you all right, darling?” Vivienne asked in passing. 

Avalon picked her head up to find the Iron Lady looking nothing less than flawless, streaming in with white and cream silks as if she hadn’t been trudging through the muggy hillside for six hours. She and Madam de Fer didn’t always see eye to eye, especially on the topic of magic, but Avalon had grown fond of her nonetheless. She was a kinder reverie of home. A woman who cared deeply about appearances and politics, and yet still tucked Avalon’s hair behind her ear and worried when the last time she’d eaten had been.

“Exhausted,” Avalon admitted. 

“Least your legs are longer than mine,” Sera groaned as she flopped down beside her, “It’s rubbish tryin’ to keep up with you and this one over ‘ere.”

She gestured her thumb back to The Iron Bull as he strode in through the camp and lodged his war hammer into a soft patch of grass. He laughed good-naturedly and came to sit on the log adjacent from them. His horns threw long shadows against her and Sera as the flames adjusted to his figure.

“Told you, you could ride on my shoulders if you wanted,” he said with a shrug. 

“I’m not daft, you’d just try an’ throw me off, yellin’ about mayhem and some shite.”

“True.” 

Vivienne permitted the group a delicate smile before sitting down near Bull, crossing one leg primly over the other. Her eyes did not leave Avalon, however. 

“Perhaps you should get some rest, my dear. You look positively frail,” she said.

“Or you could help me finish off this chasind sack mead,” Bull grinned, retrieving the leather sack from his belt loop and uncorking it with a thumb. 

Avalon squirmed. It had only been a day and already her resolve was wavering. Perhaps this had been a terrible mistake after all. Cullen had Cassandra to watch out for him should he begin to shirk his duties. But did she have the same kind of assurances? Avalon trusted Cassandra to be able to command the troops in his steed. But who could replace the Inquisitor? Surely anyone with leadership skills greater than that of a nug could take her place -but the fact remained: she was still the sole possessor of the Anchor. The duty was irrevocably hers whether she wanted it or not. 

Could she afford to let her demons compromise the Inquisition? 

The thought crossed her mind briefly, before she began to imagine Cullen back at Skyhold. His guards were probably finished with their evening rotations, and he’d likely be at his desk, alone, going through meaningless scrolls of parchment and pressing the Inquisition’s wax seal into them. She thought of his curls dusted by candlelight and the low roar of his addiction clambering up inside him. And how he would sit, without flinching, without even trying to bargain his way out of it. 

And she knew she could not let him down. 

“Honestly,” Vivienne’s voice brought her back to the present, “The Inquisitor needs a good nights sleep, not a headache in the morning. Put that swill away.”

Bull stuttered and stopped drinking from the sack. No one put the fear in him quite like the Iron Lady. Avalon couldn’t help but smile as he wiped his mouth and grinned a little sheepishly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t let that pish go to waste! I don’t need a good night’s sleep for nothin’. Hand it over, yeah?” Sera said while reaching around the flames. 

Avalon got to her feet, her head clouding, “Maybe I will get some sleep.”

“Night, boss,” Iron Bull nodded and Sera gave a wave while tipping her head back and draining the leather sack. 

As Avalon moved, Vivienne moved with her, glimmering white and with a straying hand of concern on the small of her back. 

“My dear, are you well?” she asked, “Tell me you’ve eaten something today.”

Avalon attempted a smile, “Does grass count?”

She’d been knocked into the ground more times than she was willing to admit during their skirmishes earlier in the day. She could still taste the soil and blood on her tongue. Vivienne gave her a sad, sympathetic kind of sigh and stopped her. She moved through the spaces between the tents, gone for just a moment and returning with a honey cake held delicately between her fingers. 

“Here, darling,” she said, all but forcing it into Avalon’s hand, “We can’t have our Inquisitor looking as though she’s going to waste away in front of our eyes.” 

“Of course not.” 

Avalon was too tired to argue. Vivienne was overbearing at the worst of times, but she did care. Avalon had experienced true concern like this so little in her lifetime that it was impossible to hate the woman for it. She thanked her and promised she would eat the cake before ducking into her tent. 

Blissful quiet consumed her. It was dark, cool and lonely inside the tent, just how she wanted it. There was a solitary candle burning by the makeshift desk in the corner but if she curled far enough in the corner, she could escape it’s light. She collapsed onto her bedroll with the cake melting in her palm. She took a tentative bite. The honey stuck to her lips and oozed from the dough as she tore into it. The taste sickened her immediately. She coughed, spat it out to the floor of the tent and focused every effort on keeping her stomach from roiling. 

When she was sure she had it under control, she tossed the cake to the side and moved herself as far away from it as possible. She found herself at the desk, with the lone, flickering candle. There was parchment rolled out on the desk and a quill, as well as a few dozen letters for requisitions and intel from Leliana that she had yet to sort through. She was exhausted just looking at them.

Instead, she picked up a quill and unfolded a clean piece of parchment. 

_Dearest Colton,_

_You’ve been gone for some time. It feels strange to even count the days, so I won’t. But I think of you on each. Sometimes for a whole night, others I have no time to grieve but for a moment when I wake before the world takes me in it’s jaws again._

_I miss you, baby brother. Do not mistake my negligence for uncaring._

_There is not a day that goes by that I do not wish it were you sitting in his chair, with the Inquisition under your thumb. You would have made such a good leader. Always kind, always the protector. You would have made all the right choices._

_You would have been much better than I._

_I am reminded of that fact more than ever now. I thought I was strong enough for this, but I am sick, and I am weak. My body works against me. Cullen makes it so easy. But he is stronger than me, as you always were. Would that you have taken my place in the beginning. Selfish of me to wish, I suppose, but you would have not let our family taint you the way I have._

_I am a drunk. I should be plotting ways to thwart Corypheus. I should be signing requisitions to keep my soldiers warm at night. And yet all I can do is sit here and thirst for a drink. Perhaps later I will draw lines on me with ink. Make myself feel as if I have suffered for true. I have little blood to spare, these days, I am afraid. I want to hurt but I am too weak to even punish myself properly._

_I am no better than Nicholas._

_And he is dead, as are you, and yet I remain bound to your ghosts for I see no other way to do this. I must rely on my memories. I must remember who I am, and who you were, if I am to succeed._

_I’m sorry I can’t be stronger._

_With my deepest love,_

_Avalon_


	14. Chapter 14

9:41 DRAGON | THE WESTERN APPROACH

It had been five days since her last drink. The inside of her brain felt like the Western Approach looked. Dry, cracked, red and hot enough to steal the sweat from her skin before it even had a chance to bead. Her armor was too thick, shield too heavy along her arm, the leather straps biting into her wrist and elbow. 

Everything around her was hazy. She drove her sword into the side of a hyena and the stripes of its hide began to swim before her like tangles of blood lotus in a stream. Her heart beat hard in her chest, too quickly, she thought. Blood spurted out from the body. Right between the ribs of the beast, it shot against the breastplate of her armor. She drove down once more and the head severed from the body. 

The rest of the fight faded out. Dorian was closest to her, leaning on his sword and wiping his face clean of blood and sand. Cassandra and Varric were farther ahead, finishing off a quillback that had smelled the first signs of battle. 

“I would do any number of unsavory things for a cold bath,” Dorian was saying as Avalon sheathed her sword back at her hip. 

She had not the strength to laugh, but permitted him a smile. They’d been walking for most of the morning through shin-deep golden sand and she had only Dorian’s wit to save her from concentrating too hard on her own woes. Cassandra was quiet and dutiful, as expected in the field. Their friendlier conversations were best saved for moments alone in the comforts of Skyhold, when the Seeker did not fully feel the weight of a particular task. 

Varric was good for conversation most days, but it seemed even his penchant for storytelling had been dulled by the oppressive heat. He resumed walking alongside Cassandra up ahead once the quillback was slain. 

Behind them, Avalon and Dorian walked along in silence. Her head felt as though a warhammer had split it in two and every step in the swirling sands felt as though it might be her last. She tried to soften her breath in her lungs, though it threatened to rattle and heave. 

“Inquisitor, did you know we’re actually related?” Dorian broke the silence with a wry smile.

Avalon found the strength to smirk, “That’s funny, I actually like you.” 

He graced her with a loud, energetic guffaw. “Just so -of course, we’re not first cousins or anything like that, so therein may lie the answer as to why that is.”

Avalon squinted in the sun and pulled her scarf up around her nose and mouth as the sand blew fiercely towards them. Dorian remained unmoved, putting no more than a graceful hand up towards the breeze before it halted completely. 

“Somewhere in the dank nether of my family tree, there was also a Trevelyan,” he explained once it had passed, “Perhaps he was even the one who ventured to Ostwick to establish the branch? We are talking long ago, of course.”

Long enough ago where the Trevelyans were a family of worth, she thought bitterly. She wondered about her ancestors very little, for the shame of what her bloodline had become was not anything she was keen on addressing. Still, she found herself intrigued by it now. What had the Trevelyans of old accomplished? There still had to be something noble left in her blood. What would they think of her rickety path to redemption? 

“Whoever he was, he was worth more than the entire Trevelyan line combined at present,” Avalon sighed. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Dorian smiled kindly at her before folding his hands along the small of his back as they walked. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Shame, we can’t pick our families, isn’t it?”

Avalon smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. Dorian went on to tell her a story about his distant relatives, but she was only half listening. She thought about who she might have picked, had she been able to choose her family. Duke Burgess came to mind almost immediately. With his kind eyes, his hearty laughs and his ever enduring support for her. There was little love lost between her and the Duchess, but she was sure the woman would have loved her if she’d been her daughter. 

They walked for another hour. Dorian finally grew too tired for chatting and they trudged along in sweltering silence. They were supposed to meet Hawke and his Grey Warden ally farther north, but the grueling conditions made for a slow pace. They had been given a few days grace period but it seemed like each hour that passed pushed them further from their destination rather than towards it. 

A fade rift opened along the sands about mid-afternoon. Avalon could barely pick up her sword. It seemed no matter how much water she drank, she was always thirsty. Her lips were cracked, her head pounding, it was all she could do to stand beneath the open jaws of the rift and try to disarm it while the others kept the demons off her. 

She heard a terror shriek off to her left and caught the image of it dipping below the sands out of the corner of her eye. A groan escaped her admit the noise of the battle. There was nothing to be done now. No matter how fast she felt like she reacted, the bastards would best her anyway. Avalon closed her eyes and waited for the claws to surge out from the sand under her feet and rip her back. When they came, they flung her hard. She landed a few feet away and with a mouthful of sand. 

The hilt of her sword stuck out of the gold expanse and she clenched her hand around it before bringing it up into an arc over her head from where she lay. Her blade caught the terror in the chest and opened it until black, slick ribs came through. It burst before her. As soon as it disappeared, she concentrated on the rift. The final death throes of the magic crackled and screeched before being swallowed up completely. 

Avalon lay panting in the sand, wondering if she’d ever have the strength to get up again. Her breath was shallow and unsatisfying. She pulled herself to her feet but could not be certain if she was standing. 

“Ah, just the thing to make this place completely unbearable,” Dorian muttered from behind her. 

“Inquisitor! We must make camp!” Cassandra called from up ahead. 

Avalon tried to sheathe her sword but found herself unable to do so. She missed once, twice, and then her hand cramped and the sword fell to the sand with a soft tink of metal. She stumbled to grab the sword and instead felt her knees hit the sand. Her hands clenched in the golden depths, searching for purchase. 

“Inquisitor?” Dorian’s voice, alarmed. 

Her vision spun. Black, gaping mouths began to rush at her. The burning sockets of rifts, the gaping maws of dragons, rushing, burning. She cried out and backpedaled in the sand. Her feet scrambled underneath her until she was somehow standing again. She was bleeding sweat now, watching it drip into the sand before her as she hung her head. She staggered. Dorian caught her around the waist.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” he swore as she slumped against his chest, “Inquisitor? Can you hear me?!”

She began to shake uncontrollably. His hands slipped against the silverite edges of her armor until he was forced to lay her down in the sand where she trembled fitfully. She saw Colton beside him against the haze of sunlight. Dorian’s shadow fell across her, but Colton let the sun burn right through him. He smiled sadly. The dark honey of his hair bled into the sky. 

“What’s happening?” Cassandra’s voice came closer, sharper. 

“I don’t know!” Dorian yelled.

Varric ruffled through his doublet, throwing empty potion flasks from his belt, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Avalon writhed against the sand, eyes glassy and focused on the vision of Colton. Her body burned. Sweat stuck her small clothes to her skin underneath her armor. But she felt cold all over. Her brother grew dimmer and dimmer beside Dorian. 

“Colton,” she whimpered. _Don’t leave._

He vanished, along with the sun, and soon she was alone in darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

9:41 DRAGON | SKYHOLD 

 

Hours later, she woke to a knock. 

Avalon bolted upright in what she found to be her bed. She fisted her hands in the sheets to assure herself of the reality. The mountains stretched like white cream peaks directly across her from the balcony, and the air that rolled in was sweet on her tongue. Her head felt light as a feather and she didn’t trust herself to get up from the bed. Her body trembled weakly even just lifting herself from the pillows. 

Her throat felt dry and sharp but she managed to choke out a weak: “Come in.” 

The door below the stairs opened, shut, and steady footsteps ascended. Cullen’s head of golden curls appeared through the slats of the bannister. Something in her stomach tightened and subsequently relaxed as he came to the top and turned, looking both relieved and abashed in equal measure.

“Thank the Maker you’re all right. When they brought you they weren’t sure what was wrong and I thought…I thought…well—” he paused and averted his eyes, “It’s good to see you awake.” 

Avalon rubbed her face in her hands. There was no hiding it now, she supposed. No reason to keep it from him any longer.

“Cullen,” she breathed out, staring at the mountains, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“Inquisitor?” his voice was soft, hardly accusing, but she felt her eyes stinging all the same.

“I need to confess something.”

“Of course, I’m always here to listen.” 

Avalon moved her eyes from the mountains to the landscape of his shoulders, where the fur cloak rippled over the broad lines of him. He stood with his hands resting on the hilt of his sword and she felt for a moment like she was standing in the middle of the war room with the rest of her advisors waiting on her for her word. 

Her face twisted, “Could…could you sit down, or something?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Cullen snapped to action, nodding and busying himself with moving his cloak and adjusting his sword until he could sit on the dais across from her bed. 

Once he was seated, Avalon gathered her strength enough to swing her legs off the mattress. She sat on the edge, facing him, and braced her hands on her knees. She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Where to start? Her head still felt fuzzy. A bead of sweat dripped down the nape of her neck and she shuddered as it cooled along the length of her spine.

“I had my first drink when I was fifteen years old,” she began, “My father loved his brandy and it was easy to steal. Even easier to sneak glasses during parties when no one was watching. I suppose I started drinking because it was rebellious, it was exciting.” 

She looked up, trying to gauge his reaction. Cullen said nothing and merely stared back. He nodded gently to show he was listening, and the warm copper of his eyes urged her to continue. 

“Eventually, it became numbing. When I drank, everything became tolerable. The parties, the gossip, my family…” she licked her lips and swallowed, dropping her eyes, “Myself.” 

The breeze stirred a few papers on her desk. She knew she would have to attend to them sooner or later. Worry prickled in the back of her head, an oppressive kind of heat inside her skull that made everything too loud and too quiet all at once. She wrung her hands together in her lap and found a tether in Cullen’s gaze to pull herself back. 

“I never stopped. Not for a day, not even after the Conclave, or Haven. And for that, I’m sorry.”

“Inquisitor I—”

Avalon stopped him, “The other day, when you told me how you’d stopped taking lyrium, you said something that gave me pause. You said you would not be bound to that life any longer. And I thought to myself, what was I willing to suffer to not be bound to my past?”

They were both silent for a long moment. Cullen shifted on the dais and steepled his hands in front of him.

“You’ve stopped drinking,” he said.

Avalon nodded, “And my body has been less than appreciative.” 

Cullen stood all of a sudden. She picked up her head and watched him as he crossed the distance between them and came to sit beside her at the edge of the bed. He kept a respectable distance, but she could still feel the heat of his body. The way the mattress sunk a little with his weight and threatened to slide her closer if she was not careful. 

He looked uncomfortable with the decision after he made it, choosing to look out ahead at the bannister rather than at her directly. He folded his hands in his lap and cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry you have suffered alone, Inquisitor,” he murmured, “It is not an easy journey to make by yourself.” 

Avalon wet her lips, “I thought I wouldn’t need help, that I would be strong enough on my own.”

Cullen chuckled, though not unkindly, “Forgive me, but your tenacity never ceases to amaze me.”

She raised an eyebrow and he explained. 

“You have earned the title of Inquisitor, and the responsibility that comes with it. The people have made you into a symbol and forget that you are just one woman, I admit I have a habit of doing the same,” he finally turned his head to look at her, his scarred mouth smirking, “You’ve taken the weight of the world on your shoulders so deftly, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you piled more on top without anyone even noticing.”

“A lot of good it did me. Five days sober and I have to be carried back to Skyhold,” Avalon sighed, “Sometimes I can’t decide which is the worse alternative. Being drunk, or being without? They’re dangerous in different ways, and I endanger the Inquisition with both.”

Cullen nodded, “I had the same thought, when I made my decision. I trusted Cassandra to relieve me of my duties if need be, but you don’t have that luxury.”

Avalon looked down at her hand. The green scar against her palm crackled at the attention before she closed her fingers back in on it. Cullen’s fingers twitched in his lap. She glanced up from his gloved hands to his face. The shadows drew across the sharp line of his jaw, but the sunlight fractured through his irises and made them burn like dark gold. Something in her chest twisted.

“I wish I had answers for you,” he said, “Truth be told, I’m still looking for my own.”

His hand moved and came to rest gently on her knee. His touch was warm and heavy. Heat flooded her body. 

“But what I do know is that you are one of the strongest people I have ever met, and if you choose to continue this path, you will find a way to succeed.”

Avalon glanced down to where his hand rested atop her knee. 

“And know that you do not have to suffer alone. Whatever aid I can offer is yours,” Cullen continued, “I…understand how difficult something like this can be. You have my support, for what it’s worth.”

Avalon laid her hand over his. His knuckles felt smooth against the underside of her palm. The supple leather seemed to melt against her touch. She met his eyes again, feeling the world slow down and her lungs expand.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she said.

Their faces were close. Too close, she thought for a fleeting instant. She could see the grooves in his lips, the individual, darker hairs along his jawline. His breath touched at her bottom lip. They hung like that for a moment, tethered to one another, bound so suddenly that it took a true effort to pull away. Cullen jerked back with a cough, pupils flown wide and face a deep red.

“Yes, of course, Inquisitor,” he said, near lurching from the bed and brushing down the front of his tunic as he stood, “I’ll let you get some rest.”

He walked to the edge of the stairs and turned back, hands poised on the hilt of his sword, the hollow of his throat flexing. Sunlight rained over him, drenching him in gold. She’d always hated the color gold. But on him, it was sweet. Warm as blood. 

“I’ll let the others know you’ve awakened,” he nodded respectfully before taking his leave, “Inquisitor.”

She nodded back, “Commander.”

Then watched as his golden head descended through the slats of the bannister. His steady footsteps grew softer, the door opened and then closed. There was silence again, and the sweet mountain air cooling the heat of her body. Avalon laid back against her pillows once more and tried to think of the feeling of his hand across her knee rather than the sweet burn of wine down her throat.


	16. Chapter 16

9:41 DRAGON | SKYHOLD

“Inquisitor?”

Avalon looked up from the chess board abruptly. Cullen stared at her from across the table. His eyes were kind and warm, and for a moment the splitting headache drew back from the front of her skull. Cullen nodded his head towards the chess pieces with a smile.

“It’s your turn.” 

“Oh. Right, sorry.” 

She could barely concentrate on the pieces before her. Her head was a haze of memories and a dull, throbbing ache that had not left her since they dragged her out of the Western Approach. She moved a piece noncommittally and then slumped back in her chair. Cullen regarded the move carefully. 

“As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won -which was all the time,” he started to tell her while he rolled a chess piece in the palm of his gloved hand, “My brother and I practiced together for weeks. The look on her face the day when I finally won…”

He smirked, almost devilishly. The look was entirely foreign on his face but not altogether unwelcome. She was fond of imagining him as a boy, prideful and eager, ruddy cheeked with laughter etched into his eyes. His smile faded however as he shifted forward and placed his piece down.

“Between serving with the templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays,” he reflected.

“I’m sure she does,” Avalon said, “She has to win back her title, doesn’t she?”

Cullen laughed. The sound was honey and sunlight. What little sun actually reached them through the stone archways however only managed to remind her how cold she was. The fevers wracked her day and night without end. Even now she could feel the sweat beading at her spine, though she shivered as if she was waist deep in the snow of the Frostbacks. 

It was her turn again, but she could not for the life of her decide on a move. The table swung before her and she kicked her feet into the dirt to move the chair away. She was either going to be sick, or she was going to scream. Avalon was not eager to oblige either impulse. 

“Commander,” she heaved out, “Might we take a walk instead? I’m sorry I just—”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen said without hesitation. 

He climbed from his seat and neared her, offering an arm. She took hold of it gratefully and pulled herself up beside him. She felt half a fool for having to use her Commander as a walking cane, but he didn’t seem to mind. Avalon drew a breath in to root herself and then unlatched from his grip. Even if he was not opposed to offering his aid, she did not want anyone else to see her like this. She’d been carried in like a corpse only a few days prior. She could not afford any further suspicions of weakness. 

Cullen, to his credit, said nothing. He was well aware of her situation now but did not hold it over her head, as she had expected him to. He’d been enduringly patient with her thus far. But she had to wonder at how long it could last. Sooner or later, she was certain he would grow tired of her constant battles and her burning throat. 

And why did that thought hurt so much? They walked together in silence through the gardens as he let Avalon collect herself. The thought plagued her, and did nothing to alleviate her headache.

Why should she care about Cullen at all? She asked herself again and again but never found the right answers. They were all her truths that she did not want to hear. And she was ever so good at ignoring parts of herself that didn’t satisfy her. The part that wanted Cullen she stuffed deep down in her heart. So far, in fact, that when her breath quickened at the sight of him the answer as to why still eluded her. 

But every day, her control weakened. She was so concerned with keeping herself conscious most days that she could scarcely spend the effort to push away unwanted thoughts. Now, she was completely at the mercy of her emotion. Gazing at him as the sun fell over his curls and lit up his eyes like molten earth. She was a damn fool to think of him in such a way.

A handsome man had been the ruin of her once. And though every impulse screamed that Cullen was different in every possible way from Tarius, she still could not let go of the fear of being loved once more. She had been loved so fiercely once that it had destroyed her. How could she ever expect to do so again? 

_Fool._

_Fool, fool, fool._

Once she’d caught her breath, she broke the silence and betrayed her convictions.

“I enjoy hearing you talk about your family,” she said, and hated herself for it. Every time she tried to pull away from him, part of her would lash out and stick barbs into his skin. The harder she tugged, the closer they drew her in. 

Cullen looked surprised and laughed, “Do you? I’m glad to hear it -here I was sure I was boring you with all this idle talk.” 

“I like hearing how your past shaped you into the man you are.” 

Cullen flushed and looked away, pretending to stare at something off in the distance on the ramparts.

“That’s…well, I’m grateful to have someone to listen. Talking about them makes me feel closer to them in a strange way,” he said before finally turning his head to glance at her, “You’ve said you and your family aren’t close. Have you heard from any of them since becoming Inquisitor?”

Avalon’s first reaction was irritation. Her family was a topic best reserved for when she was reeling, stinking drunk. But she found Cullen’s eyes free of judgement when she met them. Maker, he looked genuinely curious. She supposed she felt safe enough with him now -he already knew one of her dark secrets, why not unearth a few more?

“Oh, they’ve sent their birds and their courtesies,” she waved a hand, “My great aunt is hoping for political favor, my cousin hopes I’ll wear her designs in Val Royeaux and my parents have stopped writing altogether ever since they discovered we allied with the rebel mages. I imagine it’s no personal slight to them, but they’d rather stay quiet rather than openly communicate with their estranged daughter to keep their ties to the Chantry intact.” 

“They should be supporting you,” Cullen said with an edge to his voice she did not expect. 

“The Trevelyans are only interested in supporting themselves, not each other,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun as they walked from under the terrace and by the wells in the garden, “ _Modest in temper, bold in deed._ ” 

Cullen remained quiet, waiting for her to continue. She planned to make some quip, something to lighten how dark and cold she suddenly felt inside. But all she could muster was a sigh that quivered in her chest. She swallowed. Tried to ignore the burn of her throat.

“I miss my brother.”

Cullen picked his head up and she felt his eyes scan her profile, “Tell me about him.”

Avalon smiled, “Colton was three years younger than me, but we had such fun as children. We would race horses through the grove and play pranks on my older siblings. When he was seven, he was sent to the Circle and I didn’t see him much after that. But we sent letters back and forth near every day.”

She slowed her pace and Cullen followed suit. He seemed to be listening intently, the smallest of smiles twisting the scarred half of his mouth. Avalon was aware of the scar on her own and wondered foolishly if they might fit together, should they ever kiss. 

“He was better than all of us, my family didn’t have a chance to tarnish him while he was at the Circle. He was brave and funny and kind,” she sighed into the wind and closed her eyes for a moment as they walked, “Maker’s breath, he was my favorite person in the world.” 

After a quiet moment, Cullen murmured, “The world is lesser for his loss.”

Avalon nodded. She remembered a conversation she’d had with Cassandra when they were still in Haven. How Avalon had confessed that she thought Colton would have made for a better Inquisitor, that Thedas might have been better off. And that their places should have been switched. He should have received the Anchor, and she perished at the Conclave. 

The Seeker had laid a firm hand on her shoulder before speaking.

_“There is not a day that goes by that I do not think the same. I often wonder if Anthony would have made a better Seeker than I, or if he might have saved the Divine. But there is no strength in thinking like that. We must live for them, Inquisitor. Or we are lost.”_

Avalon was brought back to the present as the sunlight made her squint.

“It is,” she agreed, “But the world was very cruel to him while he was alive. I hope he has found peace by the Maker’s side.”

“I’m sure he has.”

They passed under the cover of the stone walls once more. Avalon ascended the steps and found her eyes drawn to the figure of Andraste within Skyhold’s prayer room. It was a small place, with a wide ceiling and no more than a few candles sparsely lit around the tall statue in the center. There was comfort here, however. It was a place she often sought peace. 

Now, she sought refuge. The strength went out of her legs and she stumbled once before catching herself on the wall and then finally slumping to the wooden bench just inside the door. And she was grateful, at least, for the view of her was more or less blocked from the outside. 

“Inquisitor?” Cullen asked with alarm. 

He crouched before her and leveled his gaze with hers. He was so very close again, how had that happened? Her head throbbed with pain and her fingers felt clammy as they tightened across her knees. 

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head as if it would clear away the pain. 

He did not look convinced.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right to join the scouting party tomorrow?”

“I don’t have a choice. The trail will run cold if we don’t pursue it,” she said.

“I would rather have a cold trail than lose you,” Cullen said, and then scrambled to correct himself, “What I mean…what I meant was that the Inquisition can not afford to lose you.” He lowered his head. The sun caught dust in the air and spread light throughout his curls. “Don’t risk your life unnecessarily, is all I ask.” 

“I won’t,” she said, her voice quiet, “I promise.” 

Cullen looked up and chuckled lightly, “I suppose asking you not to risk your life is much like asking you not to breathe.”

His eyes searched hers, and she wondered what he was looking for. He held her gaze for a moment and then cleared his throat, looking past her shoulder. 

“Just remember that there are those among the Inquisition, myself included, that worry about your safety,” he said with a nod of his head.

Avalon could not help herself from asking, “Yourself included?”

Cullen snapped his eyes back to her and flushed once more. He scratched at the back of his head and was just about to respond when a head poked in through the doorway. It was an older man she did not recognize, but his eyes grew to the size of plates when he saw her and Cullen.

“My apologies, your Worship! I didn’t know anyone was occupyin’ this. Just came to say a few prayers,” he stammered.

Cullen stood immediately. Avalon swore she heard an actual, audible sigh of relief out of his mouth at the interruption. 

She rose with him, pulled by the barbs she had laid so close to his skin. They tugged her upwards until she had strength back in her legs and her head tilted up at him, his image crested by the dark fan of her lashes. Then she turned to the man in the door and smiled.

“Please, come in,” she said, offering a hand to him and letting him shuffle through the doorway, “Might I join you in your prayers?”

The man blinked wide, rheumy eyes at her. “It would be an honor, your Worship.” 

Cullen bowed gently, hands on the hilt of his sword -where the weight of Thedas may as well lay- and gave her a private smile, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He went for the door, turning his head over his shoulder, “Inquisitor.”

“Commander.”

When Cullen was gone, the older man went to his knees. He recited the near entirety of the Canticle of Transfigurations, and she sat beside him enjoying the low gravel of his voice and the feel of Cullen’s presence still heavy on her skin. When the man stopped to take a breath, Avalon gazed at his profile. Worn and weathered, littered with scars.

“Who do you pray for, Serah?” she asked.

“My wife and my daughters, back in Fereldan, your Worship,” he said, clearing his throat.

He bowed his head further, until his lips nearly touched the stone foundation of Andraste’s figure.

When he spoke, his words flowed over her like a cleansing flame. 

_“The one who repents, who has faith  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,   
She shall know true peace._

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,   
She should see fire and go towards Light.  
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her.  
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”_

When he finished, he took a breath and staggered up to his knees. Avalon remained on the floor, wondering how long she might be able to sit here before someone called her to join the scouting party. She felt at peace here. Cooled by the shadows, prayers soothing her aching head. 

The man laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled before he left. 

“But that one, m’lady, was for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated!


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